


a wolf in the woods

by jessajordamn



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast), Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avoid the Void, Brotherly Bonding, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Escapism, Evil Corperations Are Also A Part Of Your Universe, Feelings, Grief/Mourning, I promise, Location: King Falls, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, POV: Daniel Jacobi, Post Wolf 359, Post Wolf 359 Canon, Rainbow Lights, Shadows (THE), Swearing, also, mostly anyways, things will look up, trying to get your life together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 27,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessajordamn/pseuds/jessajordamn
Summary: He drives, and drives, and drives, until the gas light starts blinking and he has to stop. And then he drives some more, and just goes, and the realization hits him that he has everything he needs. A set of clothes, his papers, his wallet. He could get out.He needs to get out.Daniel Jacobi needs to get out, so he does. He doesn't end up where he expects to be, but does end up where he needs to be. Picking up the pieces, he meets some new people along the way.OR: the au in which Jacobi moves to King Falls, bonds with a friendly radio host, and Kepler maybe ends up not being dead.





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> There must be a wolf somewhere  
> a wood so empty; almost divine-  
> where sheeps donn their fur  
> and you will be _just fine_
> 
> there must be a wolf, somewhere  
> hidden in the trees-  
> and it’s here, it’s here  
> coming for you, for you and for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to the first chapter of this new, slightly experimental fic! There is some plot going on, I promise, but it may have a slow start. The first few chapters will be on the shorter side, but I will post a few at the same time. 
> 
> this fic is completely unbeta'd, so if there are any errors, please let me know!

** 03:49, the 24st of November, 2017 **

There’s blood on his hands, thick and wet. Heavy, almost. Jacobi looks down and quickly finds the source. A stomach, but not his. No, not his.

“Colonel?” A moment of silence before he listens. Nothing. “Colonel?”

He shakes the shoulders of Kepler, whose body is lifeless yet restless.  
No. This is not how it’s supposed to happen. 

“Kepler!” _Damnit_. Wait. Apply pressure. Apply pressure to the wound. Even if that wound is taking up half his torso. Jacobi’s hands move mindlessly. “Come on, you stupid ass. Don’t you die on me like this.” Jacobi doesn’t know why he is even talking. It’s not like his boss -former boss- is responsive. He shakes Kepler again, but all he does is bleed.

“Goddamnit Warren,” Jacobi chokes. He won’t lose tears over this. He won’t, not today, not tomorrow. Not after all this time. “You _ass_.”

The blood is seeping through his fingers now, and his panic is rising. Jacobi curses, and then he curses again. He presses and he curses and _goddamnit_ he cries. This is not how it’s supposed to end.

“You just had to, didn’t you? You didn’t even have the decency to- just that last thing you- _fuck_. You’re going to - you’re going to make me say it. Even if- you’re- you’re d-“

Suddenly, Kepler’s chest rises. Jacobi’s hands get warmer and warmer as Warren starts to gasp and Jacobi’s heart skips a beat and a beat and-  
Kepler opens his eyes. Jacobi can’t feel a heartbeat, but he sees his eyes fly open. It’s dark, and then- light. Light from every crevice of Kepler’s body. White light covers the room. It gets hotter and hotter and _suddenly_ Jacobi’s choking.

“Colonel?” he asks, but the question only echoes in his mind. His stomach starts to fill with dread and horror, and then there’s blood, just so much _blood_ , and he knows he’s-

_Awake_. Completely and utterly awake. 

Jacobi doesn’t even bother to put on proper pants, just puts on sweats and old army boots, the ones he doesn’t even like that much, and takes a hoodie with him. Nothing says 3:54 am like going for a midnight drive through town after a _lovely_ night’s sleep. The mustang he drives is red enough to be generic, and rusted enough to look inexpensive -which it _is_. It creaks and groans, and Jacobi likes the certainty that it one day will just die on him. Just like his hopes and dreams. Maybe it’ll even explode! 

He knows the amount of money he earned adventuring in space could’ve bought him a real nice car. But a real nice car isn’t his thing. It certainly was Kepler’s, but never his. Why’d you give something expensive to someone who professionally breaks things? Whose sole talent was tearing apart things meant to be left unbroken? No, you don’t _trust_ that person with a real nice car. You just don’t. So Jacobi saw a real crappy car which he noticed thanks to how un-noteworthy it was. It was a bit old, a bit ugly, and a bit dysfunctional. Jacobi related to this car on a deeper level, so he took it home, whatever _that_ was supposed to be. A building with former colleagues and the vague sense that he was the odd one out. Lovelace had called it _imposter syndrome_. Jacobi called it being a shit good guy. Just because he brought down Goddard with Lovelace didn’t mean he’d suddenly become one of the good guys. 

Yeah, as if he’d ever be one of the good guys. He’d tried not to be a monster, which was something, he supposed. Driving over the beat up road, Jacobi turns up the radio to drown out his thoughts. It’s more or less just talk, no music, but he doesn’t mind. He drives, and drives, and drives, until the gas light starts blinking and he has to stop. And then he drives some more, and just _goes_ , and the realization hits him that he has everything he needs. A set of clothes, his papers, his wallet. He could get out.

_He needs to get out._

* * *

The next few days are fueled by a restless anxiety and the regret that he didn’t leave a note. He shoots Lovelace a text and puts his phone on silent before continuing his trip. He has enough money in the bank to live off for a while, but he doesn’t plan on roadtripping too long. He needs to settle down. He needs to get away. 

Jacobi drives the mustang for a while. Minutes, hours, then days. Landscapes pass him by, changing every so often. He looks, listens, then drives. Hours on end, until he remembers he himself needs fuel too. So he stops at a beaten down place, orders the crappiest coffee he has ever tasted and shoves a pile of pancakes into his mouth. It doesn’t taste like anything to him.

The 26th of December 2016. That faithful day. _God_ , what a mess.  
In all honesty, he thought he’d be dead. Become one with the schrapnel of the spaceship. Poetic justice, of some sorts. Instead, he had woken up with a headache and the eerie sense that he had replaced himself. They were heading towards earth. They _had_ been heading towards _-_ home. Maybe not home. Jacobi did not know nor care: philosophic questions were not there to be answered. To finish this mission, to really finish it- well. There was him. There was Lovelace. There was the Haephestus crew, questionably alive, and the Hermus crew, affirmatively dead. All but one. And there was Goddard.

One is a very lonely number.

Jacobi finishes up his pancakes, pays the check, and heads out again. The engine shudders and rattles, and with a few groans it creaks back to life. It’s 6:17 am. Smooth music hits his eardrums through the airwaves, and he lets himself fool him into being relaxed despite his racing heart. He might be passing the speed limit, just a little.  ~~Just a lot.~~


	2. Sirens

** 19:54, the 24st of November, 2017 **

Sirens. Jacobi hears _sirens_. It takes him a while to place the sound. He has been driving in an endless forest for hours on end, and his brain feels like nothing more than a cotton ball. He probably should not be driving right now, but it’s the only thing he knows how to. Papers. He does have his papers. Papers, sweatpants, a now somewhat smelly shirt, a hoodie, worn-down sneakers on his feet and flipflops in the trunk. A pair of sunglasses and a half empty bottle of water stowed away somewhere. His papers, his glasses, and bags under his eyes. Emotional baggage to last a lifetime, that too, and maybe even some hidden trauma. He doesn’t think about it.

So. The sirens. Looking in the rearview mirror he sees a police car drawing closer. For a minute, he considers speeding up. But it’s not a consideration, not really, so he slows down, turns on the blinker, and pulls over. He quickly fixes his hair in the rearview mirror, hoping that he looks halfway decent, knowing that he doesn’t. There’s a tap on the window. Jacobi manually rolls it down.

“Good afternoon,” a friendly faced man appears in his field of vision. 

“Good afternoon,” Jacobi echoes, mentally preparing a list of reasons why he looks the way he does, and was driving the way he was driving. He wasn’t speeding, not really. Maybe a little. 

“Sir, I couldn’t help but notice you were driving a tad bit fast. Now I don’t like dealing out tickets to fresh faces, but you oughta slow down just a smidge were that to be prevented.”

“I’ll watch it, officer,” Jacobi answers, trying not to sound confused.

“Well okay, now that’s more like it,” the man smiles. Jacobi scans his clothes. Deputy. “Now I don’t know if you noticed, but you’ve been driving around here for quite a while now. General Abelene got you good.” At that, the deputy grins. “I dunno if you gotta be somewhere, but I can take you to the station. I’m headed there anyway. Might want to get some dinner while you at it.”

“Huh,” Jacobi says, and then slowly nods. He wonders how he missed the fact that he has apparently been driving in circles. He wonders what that Abelene guy has to do with it. “Yeah, that’d be great.” 

“All you gotta do is follow me,” the deputy tips his head slightly, rubbing his hand over his forehead, lingering around the beaten-up mustang. Jacobi nods, and then the deputy starts to walk to his car. Jacobi watches the man, resting his head upon his carseat. That was close. Definitely could have been worse, that’s for sure,but he doesn’t know if he likes it this way. It all feels a bit- strange. And Jacobi does not like strange.

Jacobi has had enough strange to last a lifetime.


	3. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very, very short chapter, but it felt kinda weird to put it in with the next one. Hope y'all enjoy!

** 01:03, the 29th of November, 2017 **

It’s either late or early, depending how you looked at it. To Samuel Stevens, it once would have been late. To Shotgun, it once would’ve been early. Today, it’s just simply _on time_.

Sammy takes a sip of his coffee, the bitter taste running through his mouth. He needs to get it together before the show starts, wishing he had had a better night’s rest. He knows he’s a fool for it. Sammy and sleep don’t seem to be getting along, however much he wishes for it. It’s either fourteen hours in bed or three days without, and a looming sense that the life he is living is but a shadow of what it’s supposed to be. The idea of living in a nightmare, no control and impending doom. Today is one of three days. He feels the coffee pass through his esophagus. 

After about half an hour of gathering his thoughts, Sammy is awakened by the tingling of the bell at the door. A cold gust of air moves past him as a man walks up to the counter, bags under his eyes, hair chopped and ruffled and jet black and tied hastily together. There’s a scar around his right ear and cheekbone. He does not look up or down, just keeps walking. There’s an air around him that Sammy cannot place. He’s not from here. 

That’s not what makes him different.

“Put the coffee on my tab,” he says to Rose, who knows that he’ll be coming back after the show. He leans in, only slightly. “And put his on there too,” he says, nodding towards the stranger, who’s holding a crumpled piece of paper, shoulders hunched. Sammy wishes he had time to talk to him, but leaves nonetheless. 


	4. Haircut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jacobi's depressed gay ass: let's get a haircut!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short one! weeh!

** 06:51, the 30th of November, 2017 **

With trembling hands he stands in front of the mirror. His hair is disheveled and messy and too long for his liking, so it has to go. He has been through the motions before. 

Missing Maxwell isn’t something new. Missing Kepler _is_. But you see, last time he went through the motions he had wanted Kepler gone. Bullet through the head, clear shot. He had a bit of a fickle relationship with grieving. Ain’t no time to grief up in space, or when you’re busy. Now he’s neither of those things. It has almost been a week. His long hair reminds him of them. It’s not -

So it has to go. Jacobi hears the sounds of the clippers, the whirring of the machine. The bathroom is dimly lit and the tiles could use some cleaning, but that’s not what this is about. New beginnings, maybe. Jacobi shoves the thought out of his head as he brings the blades closer to his scalpel. His reflection is all but distorted, his scars cut clean, top section of his head in a quick bun. He’ll start with the left side, where the skin is smooth and somewhat oily from the drops of sweat that had been running over his face when he had awoken. A deep breath, a steady hand. Almost. 

His hair falls into the basin, wads at a time. Jacobi can feel his heart pounding, and gets annoyed by that. It’s just hair, after all. He moves to his right-hand side, where burns grace his ears and a part of his cheekbone. No safety goggles are gonna protect you from that. He moves carefully around the skin, letting the machine do its work. After he finishes shaving both sides, he moves on to the back. It’s a bit harder, but not impossible. _It has to go_. After that, it’s all manual labour. He takes scissors to the top section of his hair, cutting off large amounts until the length is as desired. It’s nowhere near perfect, chopped up and almost disastrous. Jacobi smiles. 

He’d like some colour. Something old, something new, something borrowed. Definitely blue. He’d bet Alana would’ve liked something cybernetic, electric. Personally, he’s thinking more of a darker blue, something deep and not too far from home, but far nonetheless. Almost unnoticeable, but there. Like he thought he’d be, like he thinks he is. Just- here.

A small town and maybe even smaller minds, he thinks. He doesn’t know, hasn’t been here long enough to judge. All he knows is that he has struck down here, and that that’s it. Something about this- there’s something about this. 


	5. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with a real-life partial description of episode 63: mama said knock you out

** 02:33, the 1st of December, 2017 **

“Welcome back to another edition of the Sammy and Ben show, if you’re just tuning in this evening, well, then you’re in for a special treat.”

“Very true, Sammy. We are _very_ happy to have in the studio the woman who not only has been single-handedly breaking one of the biggest stories to hit king falls since- well, since the last time she was in the news- but _also_ was massively instrumental in leading in the arrest of escaped murder suspect Ernie Salsedo.”

“That’s one hell of an introduction.”

“She’s a hell of a person.”

Jacobi does not why he is awake at this ungodly hour. Well, he knows, he just does not want to admit it. Feelings be damned. He is listening to the AM radio show. It has become somewhat of a commonality. Can’t sleep? Turn the radio on. Most of the times, nothing happens. There might be an ill-advised advert for some creep in a van, or some dude calling himself dangerous Dave. He has almost become acquainted with the voice of the grumpy old man who seems to forget half of the hosts. _Almost_ , but not quite. Sometimes the words just echo off the wall of his room. Sometimes, he wonders if he should stay.

“If you haven’t put it together, please join us in welcoming the lovely miss Emily Potter into the studio this evening.”

This town. Why did he stop here? It can’t just have been the sirens, or the friendly face. There must be something-

“…Himinists…”

What? Jacobi tries to focus, but the hosts are now talking about an Ernie and some guys in the woods, and in itself, that doesn’t make the most sense. What is happening in this town?  
The shops seem normal enough. There is some bait shop which he does not want to visit, because he heard one too many stories about some fishing trip, and he also does not trust there to not be ducks. He does not like ducks. The diner is fine, good even. They’re open at ungodly hours, and with that it seems to be the only place in town that is. Jacobi can’t blame them; the diner’s just enough on the outskirts to profit from truck drivers and other folks who’re just passing through. 

He’s only been here for a week. He hasn’t seen much, exactly. He’s heard the odd rumour, talk on the radio. Things that does not seem to matter, but matter to the people. He has not seen much of this town, no, but does he want to?

He’s only been here for a week. He’s already been here- _shit_.   
In a rush, scrambles to charge his phone. He can’t just go off the grid like that- well, maybe. 

“…maybe in the fifties? After World War II for sure-“ 

The screen lights up. Five missed calls. Thirteen messages. The last one reads:

_Daniel Kenneth Jacobi_ , _where in Cutter’s deadass fucking name are you?_

He can’t bring himself to answer. Do they care? Do they _really_ care? He doesn’t know. It throws him off. He told them- he texted them- 

He told himself he didn’t belong. And he didn’t. It is not like they had done what _he_ had done.

“Nothing, it’s nothing.”   
A lie even Jacobi can hear through the radio.

“It’s not nothing, Sammy, spit it out.”

“What’s up Sammy?”

What _is_ up? He can’t just- do whatever he’s doing. But he can’t just _leave_. There’s a reason he’s staying here, there must be. Maybe this is where he needs to be. Or maybe he just tells himself that because he feels like an asshole. It’s not a new feeling.

Maybe he shouldn’t think about this right now. Maybe he should just sleep and move on with his life. Isn’t that what he’s here for? To move on. Leave the skies behind now that he knows what’s out there. Find some purpose now that he has almost singlehandedly tore down one of the biggest cooperations- the rotten part of it. Finally, a good cause for his destructive hands. Some things are just meant to be broken. Maybe some people are.

“He might be a lying, slimy, two-faced little twit that nobody in town likes except for his grandma and a girl with some memory problems,-”

“Sammy”

“- but there’s a conspiracy here. We didn’t get a group of hardworking townspeople together to pull one over on you. Greg Frickard is an opportunist. He’s a bastard, but he isn’t dumb. And what he’s done to you- it’s despicable. A-and I get that you’re torn, and I get that you don’t trust what you’ve heard and what you remember-”  
Well, _there’s one_.

“-but goddamnit, just look at the guy sitting across from you, and know that if there’s anything real on this _earth,_ in this tiny, crazy, fucked up town- it’s that Ben Arnold loves you more than I’ve ever seen anybody love before. And you’re here, right now, learning about this terrible prophecy, because of that love.”

“That, uhm, this - is a lot to take in. And you’re right, you should go and take some time to deal with this, all of it-”  
Maybe he should. Maybe he _really_ should. 

“- without me or Sammy, or Greg, or anyone influencing how you feel.”  
“You’re a hero, Emily Potter. You know that, right?”

If only Jacobi were a hero. Maybe then he’d deserve some time off. But he’ll never be a hero. Maybe an anti-hero, maybe that could work. But that would be a big _maybe_. There is too much rotten in his core. And although he has tried to scrape away the bruised outsides, taking an apple out of the orchard don’t stop its rotting. Cutting down a sick tree only prevents new tragedies from happening; it does not help the existing proverbial apples. 

Jacobi wonders if he’ll ever be able to separate himself from his past.


	6. Strangers

** 06:24, the 5th of December, 2017 **

It is late. After the show, Sammy drives to Rose’s. Without Troy, without Ben. The latter had been frantic after the show, moving pages and scribbling things down. He’d left under the guise of ‘research’ and ‘going to bed early’, as if Sammy would believe the lie for a second. Troy was not on duty, meaning Loretta had wanted him home, wanted to wake up next to her sweetheart. Sammy can’t blame them.

So alone it is. Maybe not the biggest change. His apartment is just that: an apartment. An accumulation of loneliness and boxes stacked on top of each other. Some dust gathering on the windowsill. Space filled with furniture. Nothing more, nothing less. Sammy likes to think he knows lonely when he sees it. After all this time, how can he not?

As soon as he walks into the diner, he notices a familiar face. Someone he’s seen before. The man now has shorter hair, still choppy, but in a shade that is a deeper blue than the jet black he noticed before. It suits him.  
Again, he is alone.

It only takes Sammy a split second to decide. He has been here before. He walks up to the counter, takes place next to the stranger. For six in the morning, the diner is pretty packed. The waiter is dancing between the tables, pouring out coffee wherever they go. Somewhere in one of the booths, a child is sleeping. Sammy is in no rush.

“Hi there,” he tries, feeling slightly awkward. The man perks up, as if he recognizes him. Sammy clears his throat. “You new in town?”

“Is it that obvious?” the man asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Just haven’t seen you around much,” Sammy shrugs.

“Haven’t been around much,” the man responds. He turns his head towards Sammy, taking him in. A small smile plays around the corner of his lip, barely. 

“Ja-,” he starts, then thinks better of it. “Daniel” He holds out his hand.

“Sammy,” Sammy says, shaking the outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thought you sounded familiar,” Daniel murmurs. Sammy raises his eyebrows.

“Fan of the show?”

“Casual,” Daniel says. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Eases the mind. Sort of.”

“Hmhm,” Sammy half-heartedly agrees, wondering how much Daniel knows. How much he believes. There has been a lot happening, and God knows _he_ has been a sceptic. “So you heard the stories?”

“Some. But you can’t believe everything you hear,” a wry smile accompanies Daniel’s words. For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something else. A mutter almost comes out, something spoken under his breath. Sammy doesn’t catch it. There’s a silence between them that is yet to be awkward, but pregnant nonetheless. 

“So, Sammy Stevens,” Daniel let’s his name roll of his tongue, turning to look at him, letting go of whatever he was holding. “Where do I need to go?”

Sammy tries to read the situation. If his mind were somewhere else, he might have mistaken it for an invitation. But it isn’t, not really. Not that Sammy thinks. It doesn’t make sense- unless. _Unless_. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I’m some guy in a diner at the crack of dawn, I am clearly new in town and -just throwing this out there- because I have heard your show, I know you’re familiar around town. Is there somewhere I would want to visit?”

“Oh,” Sammy says, only slightly confused at the amount of words that just came spilling out this near stranger. He thinks of the piece of paper that had been in this stranger’s hand. The picture that had been caught in the slow neon buzz of the light above the bar. Keeps thinking, remembering, his face. Could there be something there? Is this a stranger who had come here with the same purpose he had, two years ago? Could he know? A hopeful part of Sammy makes his heart race. Guilt and sadness washes over him in tidal waves, and then grief hits him. He doesn’t wish upon Daniel what had happened to him, no. He just wants someone to identify with. Someone to help. Someone to help _him_.

Sammy realizes he can’t just ask about the picture. Maybe he can ask about Daniel’s reasons, maybe he would answer. He doesn’t know. Suddenly, he wonders what he is doing, what he is trying to do. Could he let it slip? Nobody knows. Nobody knows anything, except for him, and maybe - _just maybe_ \- this stranger. What if, what a big if, what if- what _if._ _Is he looking for someone_? What if- “Are you looking for something?”  
A flicker across Daniel’s face which mirrors the array of emotions Sammy has just displayed. Mixed feelings. A dry laugh. “A direction. Purpose, maybe. Something or _someone_ to tell me what to do-,” a smile, again, not reaching his eyes. Daniel looks away. “No, uh, no, not looking for anything in particular.” A lie. He and Sammy both know it. He scrapes his throat. “You?”

“Yeah,” Sammy answers, before realizing he slipped up. He doesn’t, however. He keeps it in, like he always does. Like he needs to do. These thoughts, memories- they’re his, and his alone. A best kept secret. “Make sure to stay away from that huge building. The science-y place,” Sammy signs with his hands, “You don’t- don’t want to get involved.”

“Ah, so there’s mad scientists here too,” Daniel grimaces. “Noted”

“If you want to know more about the town, the library is a great place to go.” Sammy tries to switch back to a happy, sort of peppy version of himself. He feels like he needs to change up the tone of this conversation. It can’t get too personal. _It is not about him_. “The lake is great if you want to just be by yourself for a while. There’s a café, too.”  
Daniel nods. 

“Okay then, guess I’ll check them out,” he says, still staring to the space in front of him, thinking of _something_. He snaps out of it, smiles a tentative smile at Sammy. “Thank you.”

Sammy doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling, but he doubts it’s this weird concoction of emotions. He nods, shortly. 

“You’ll get there,” he says, more to himself than to Daniel. “You’ll be okay.”  
It’s almost like a wish. For himself. There’s an array of expressions that crosses Daniel’s face, none of which Sammy can quite place. Eventually, he just gives one single nod, eyes wet, and starts to pack up his things. Sammy doesn’t try to stop him. 

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, standing up before making his way to the door. Almost outside, he turns around, giving Sammy one quick once-over. “We should do this more often.”


	7. Lonely

** 13:47, the 9th of December, 2017 **

Sometimes  ~~Sammy~~ Jacobi feels so miserably lonely. The feeling is fleeting yet persistent, like an everlasting summer of crappy feelings. Some days, his phone rings. Those days is phone is charged and full of life, lighting up while he slumps back. His phone rings without him noticing, until it doesn’t. When he does, he expects to recognize the number. He never does.

He lets the phone ring. 

His beard grows out, and he hates it. He doesn’t move for days. At night, he dreams of Kepler calling- calling him. It makes him want to throw his phone out. He puts a notepad beside his bed and only thinks about writing things down. A letter, a note, a line. A sentence.  
Jacobi thinks he shouldn’t have come here, and laughs a bitter, empty laugh. When the day feels like it can’t move him forward, he has the decency to think he doesn’t _belong_. It is a bitter irony that spreads through his mouth as he bites his tongue. God, he is a _mess_. He can’t even put himself together- instead, he stares at the fan in the corner of his room as he hears people passing by in the hallway. The fan rotates with a slow _swoosh_. There is no reason for the fan to be on, but he doesn’t care. He shouldn’t have come here.

_Swoosh.  
_ He shouldn’t have come here.

_Swoosh_.  
He shouldn’t have gone here.

_Swoosh.  
_ He shouldn’t have gone there.

_Swoosh.  
_ He shouldn’t have gone _there_.

S _woosh.  
_ He shouldn’t have gone.  
He shouldn’t have gone-  
_he shouldn’t-_

Swoosh.

He mourns the day he decided to go to space, the day he walked into that bar in broad daylight, the day he picked up that card and looked into his eyes and let his curiosity get the best of him. He mourns the day he called that number and mourns his hopes and mourns his dreams, and then he mourns the take-off and the shitty food and the time that got away and the time he aged in space that doesn’t line up with the time on earth. He mourns his terrible, _terrible_ decision making. He mourns- he mourns _her_. All at once, it comes back, and it feels like a heart attack. But if it is, Jacobi is willing to let it kill him. 

It is not like she would’ve known what he should do. She wouldn’t have known the answers to all his questions, but she would make this _hellshit_ of a situation more bearable. Fuck, he probably wouldn’t even be in this situation if she was still here. Still _alive_. He aches. 

She deserved a fucking funeral, a proper funeral, with shitty music and balloons or whatever the fuck she would’ve wanted. A grave or an urn. A life she didn’t get to live and he now suffers. She should’ve had all of that, and so much more, and instead- 

well. Jacobi supposes there is worse things he could do with his grief.

* * *

He wakes up with wet cheeks and a pit in his stomach. His phone rings, and for a hot second he debates picking it up. His fingers linger on the screen, and then the line drops. He turns to his side. He has one set of clean clothes left. One set of clean clothes, his phone, his wallet. A pair of flipflops and some papers. A rusty red mustang. An anxiety fueled heartbeat and a head full of cotton balls. Tired eyes and a tired mind. 

For the first time in days, he steps outside. 


	8. Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Jacobi meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I am very much still figuring out their voices. Bear with me, please. Things should become happier soon!

** 08:08, the 16th of December, 2017 **

At days like these, Sammy finds it hard to be a King Falls resident. There he was, sitting at the studio, while his co-host tells him that the thing taunting them is something he had once wished for. A friend to come alive. It is real, unadulterated King Falls _bullshit_. He can’t wait to sleep it off.

He walks into the café to still the worst of the hunger. Entering, his heart drops. It is hard to see yourself without looking in the mirror.

“Daniel,” Sammy says, and it’s soft, too soft for Jacobi’s liking. It makes him choke.  


“Sammy,” he rasps, not liking the sound of his own voice. His eyes are tired, and he looks like he rolled out of bed without getting any sleep. Sammy knows the feeling, merely dragging himself along, some weird sideshow in his own life. A stranger in his garden. Always pretending.

Daniel is not pretending.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says. It might have been silent for too long.

“Well, yeah,” Daniel says, and then nothing more. He tries to find the words, opens his mouth and closes it again. Then: “You look like shit,” and Sammy laughs.   


“Thanks,” and, “You too.”  


“You know what they say: feel like shit, look like shit!” Daniel smiles, “You gotta reflect who you are on the inside on the outside. It gotta match,” he huffs, looking away. “At least, that’s what A- a friend used to say.”

“Hm,” Sammy lets out a short laugh again.“Looks like we’re doing a great job.”  


“Rough night?” 

“You heard the show?” 

“Nope,” Daniel says, popping the p. A lie, but one Sammy doesn’t notice. Jacobi wants to keep the conversation going, wants to hear about this near-stranger’s night. He’s tired of being alone. So he listens to Sammy Stevens, to the events that took place, the glee in his voice when he talks about ‘the big man up north’, the sheer disbelief about the whole situation. An elf on the shelf, whatever that may be. For a moment, it almost feels _normal_. It sounds strange, but to him, the whole ordeal sounds like-  


“Long story short-,” Daniel might’ve turned his head a bit too quick. It makes Sammy stutter. “This toy Ben had wished to life as a kid came to bite him in the ass, and I still haven’t processed it.”   


“Hopefully this will help,” the blonde barista smiles, handing Sammy his order.He nods, then walks over to one of the free tables. Daniel follows, sitting down on the edge of a chair. He seems hesitant. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and he breathes like he’s about to collapse or unfold. Sammy has been there. Sammy has been there _so many times_.   


“Sometimes it feels like my brain is being devoured,” Daniel says, not looking at Sammy. Jacobi does not know _why_ he wants to spill his gut to a complete stranger. It wouldn’t be the first time he did that. It only means he should’ve learned. But it has all been building, weeks of silence that only amplified his thoughts and the noise and the voices in his had. His notepad is still empty.

He is weary. It’s not a part he can share with Minkowski, or Lovelace, or Eiffel. It is one thing to see humanity in a monster. It is another to be one- and none of them were. He has tried to share it, and he couldn’t. Maybe it is weakness. Maybe it’s that he - they do not have to grieve the way he does. They didn’t- but they did.  
Sometimes, he can’t even share that part with himself. So he pushes.  


“It feels like I’m stuck,” he says, and there’s nothing more to it. Daniel looks like he wants to say more, but nothing comes out. A concerned look mixes with worry and sorrow. Eventually, he looks Sammy straight in the eye, jaw locked.

Sammy has never felt more bare. 

There must be something in his expression; Daniel’s features soften, ever so slightly. His lips form a silent ‘oh’. Then, louder:  


“Fuck.”  


“Yeah,” Sammy agrees, although he is not sure what he’s agreeing to. If it’s anywhere near the dread he feels in the pit of his stomach every night, if it’s anywhere close to the moments he can’t breathe because he’s still here and nothing has changed but nothing feels right, if it’s anything like the ache of his heart since the day he started missing _him_ \- then yeah. “Fuck.”

They both stay silent for a while, not knowing where to take it.  


“Sorry for dumping this all on you,” Daniel then says, although he looks conflicted about it.  


“It’s fine,” Sammy assures him, “we all need a listening ear.” Before Daniel can protest, he adds: “I’m willing.”  


“I usually don’t do this, you know,” Daniel says. “Happened once before.” Barely a twitch of his lips, but a smile nonetheless. Daniel looks away. He lets out a little sigh before talking again, a frown creeping upon his face. Why is he hesitant?  


“See, it goes like this. Two assholes meet in a bar. One, clearly drunk, spills his beans. His life story, including all the sad parts. Well, mostly the sad parts. The other just buys the most outrageous, expensive fucking scotch, and listens. And then, at the end of the ride, he leaves a card with a number.”

Daniel sighs.

“It would be easy if it just ends there.” He looks back at Sammy. His eyes are red.  


“But it doesn’t,” Sammy finishes. Jacobi nods, fumbling around in his pocket. He produces a card.  


“No, it didn’t,” Daniel agrees. He puts the card down in front Sammy. “It doesn’t.”


	9. Pete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, bigger chapter will be posted tomorrow! I really just wanted Jacobi to meet Ben*  
> consider this an horse d'ouvre (really it's not much else)

** 20:14, the 20th of December, 2017 **

Supposedly, there’s a Christmas tree lighting. One that supposedly should have been happening four days ago, but there appeared to be some technical difficulties. Jacobi doesn’t mind, really. He makes his way through the crowd, shuffles along rows of people. For a small town tree lighting there are a lot of people turning up. 

“You know, technically, that’s not safe,” he says to no one in particular. He hears someone beside him scoff.  


“What do you mean?”  


“With the wiring and all,” Jacobi nods, “it’s a fire hazard.”  


“Well, Pete set it up, so no one should be surprised. At all.”  


“Pete?” Jacobi asks, the name only vaguely ringing a bell.  


“Yeah. Yard-boy Myers, over at Creeperson McCreepers on Deadhill. The third. Well, home of HFB- whatever. He mows the lawn.”  


“Oh,” Jacobi just mutters, scanning the scenery. The tree is massive, its branches spreading out across the sky. Along each branch an array of lights is wrapped. He hopes it won’t catch fire. 

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably better you don’t know him. He’s trouble.”  
Jacobi turns to look at the person standing beside him. He’s not overtly tall, but neither is Jacobi. His hair is dark and curly, his face soft and fond and _very_ expressive. The man is dastardly handsome. 

“Sounds like my type,” Jacobi jokes. His track record wasn’t the best.   


“Pete is nobody’s type,” the man says with such heated conviction that Jacobi immediately questions the statement. “But enough about Pete. Troy’s going to light the tree any second now.”   


“How do we kn-,” Jacobi starts to ask, but right at that moment the whole crowd starts to count down. That answers his question. After the one is chanted by the others, the power goes on, and the sky lights up. Jacobi doesn’t remember seeing something so beautifully bright up close. Usually, the sharp lights would be caused by destruction rather than this weird divinity. Jacobi rather likes it.   


“Wow,” he mouths, and the man nods enthusiastically.  


“I know right? It’s such a wonderful sight.”  


“Such a wonderful night,” Jacobi finishes, muttering to himself.  


“What was that?”   


“Nothing,” Jacobi shrugs. “Just a thought.”  


“Hm, okay, yeah,” the man mutters, sounding vaguely familiar now that Jacobi is paying mind to it. He tries to piece it together, but it seems to escape his mind. He breathes in the cool air. “You’ve never been to the lighting before?” the man then asks, sounding incredulous. “Because you asked-”  


“Yeah, nope. Haven’t been here before.”  


“Oh,” the man says. “Well, it’s a good thing you came tonight. Wouldn’t want to miss it. It’s one of the best things this town has to offer. Apart from our annual market, and Ron’s 4th of July cook-out, and of course the best small town in America celebration, and my mother’s Hanukkah dinner-”  


“Sounds like there’s a lot going on here,” Jacobi smiles. The man laughs.   


“There definitely is,” he confirms. Then, as almost an afterthought, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Ben, by the way. Ben Arnold.”   


“Daniel Kenneth,” Jacobi says, then deciding that’s that. It feels weird. “Nice to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *before things go down


	10. Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, is that a spark of happiness in Jacobi?

** 15:33, the 23rd of December, 2017 **

Jacobi gets his keys handed to him a few days before Christmas. It’s a shaky, uncertain feeling that rushes through him, one he cannot explain. Except- new beginnings. Isn’t this what he came here to do? Maybe. Maybe it’s like learning how to breathe again. No, that feels too heavy. It’s not quite that, but similar. Not taking up room he isn’t supposed to take up. A place to belong to.

Maybe it’s some sort of excitement. 

He parks the red mustang out front of the apartment block, taking it all in. It definitiely looks shady, but it’s not worse than any of the buildings he’s lived in before. It mostly looks old, solid and concrete. A tad bit boring. He looks at the keytag of his new apartment keys. 13B.  
He’s been at the apartment exactly once. It is almost exactly as he remembers: furnished. There’s a bed and a couch and a kitchen and a bathroom. There’s nothing modern about it, but it is enough. At one point, he will probably go out to buy more furniture, but not now. He’s not gonna risk it over the panic-struck parents going last-minute Christmas shopping. 

He puts the shirts and hoodies he brought from the thrift store. He likes thrift stores, wonderfully eclectic and very very noncommittal. No clerks asking if he needs anything, or if they can help. Just him and his crappy sense of style. He’d been delighted when he’d found a hawaiian shirt with surfing Santas. Sometimes, it’s the little things in life. It's so _ugly_ \- Lovelace would love it.

Along with the clothes he’d bought some Christmas lights, white and multicoloured and probably broken. Like him. Jacobi didn’t mind- it had been an impulse buy anyway. He puts away his belongings; papers in the bedside drawer, flipflops next to the door. The now empty bottle of water on his nightstand. The picture - the only picture he has, crumpled up and folded and held together by memories and high hopes- is placed next to the bottle. He needs to find a frame for it. He stares at it for a moment before moving. He decides he needs to go out, and braces for the expected rush.

It’s cold outside. Jacobi doesn’t know why it surprises him; he is only wearing a hoodie and it’s the middle of winter in a quiet mountain town. He walks to the shops, the air cold on his face. Walking into one of the shops, he picks up a dark red scarf, a hat, and a set of Christmas cards. Holiday greetings, and all. He takes one that reads ' _Have a King Falls' Christmas!_ ' in swirly letters to put on his fridge, even though he’s not sure what it’s supposed to mean, and one with a reindeer and the lake, and a lakemonster in a Christmas hat. After paying he moves to a quiet spot, somewhere he can write his cards. First to Sammy, then to Doug, Lovelace, and Minkowski. He sits for a while, not knowing what to write.  
What do you write to the people you survived space with, brought down an evil corporation with, who you ran away from because you had sense of fear gnawing away at you because for the first time in forever you had time to think and you didn’t like it at all? What do you write after you just left a text? 

As if he could just disappear. There’s enough assholes who had done that to him. He’d never wanted to become them. 

So he writes  
‘ ** _Happy Holidays!_** ’ in big letters, and then, smaller, near the bottom of the card ‘ _sorry for being a dick_ ’. He signs the card with his initials, and his address in the bottom corner. He fully expects to get an angry text in a few days, a message from Minkowski reading ‘write it like you mean it’ or Lovelace going ‘then do something about it!’. Something angry that will keep him in check and will feel like a punch to the gut. 

They will come from him, and he will deserve it. 

He feels his keys in his pocket, and sighs.  
"Merry Christmas, you asshole."


	11. Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a long one!

** 00:02, the 24th of December, 2017 **

Sammy doesn’t know when eating had become labouros. Over time, he’d just forgotten to care about it. There was something easily boring about the act of consuming food- it was easy to feel like not doing it. At times, everything tasted bland, the food becoming a drab paste in his mouth without any distinguishable taste. He has learned to recognize these moments, because it was always when the emptiness lived within him that everything seemed tasteless. Trouble ashore. A red sky in the morning.

Sammy tries to keep track of his diet. Apparently, eating healthy should have a positive influence on your mental health as well. Regular meals and enough water. Of course, he was slightly fucked with his night job and day-time sleeping, but he was trying. Easy things, enjoyable things. More importantly, things that could be made when he felt like his limbs were tied to his bed and his head swam. It was a thing he learned to recognize in others, too. He’d seen it in Daniel when he ran into him about a week ago. The blank stare and the pause between Sammy’s question and Daniel’s answer had been enough. He’d thought of bringing over leftovers, then realized he didn’t actually _know_ where Daniel lived. It’s why he tackles Ben before the show with a quick question. A _would it be alright if I brought someone to breakfast_ against the soft radio silence, met with confusion and some protest along the lines of _as long as it’s not frickard_ which is quickly countered by a _ben why in the name of the ever-loving god would i want to invite that creepy bastard?_. And then, a raised eyebrow, a smile and a _are you seeing someone?_ which is not the conclusion Sammy expected Ben to jump to. The _I’ve met someone_ doesn’t help, and he winces as Chet saunters out of the studio with a “time to hit the streets!”. Ben chuckles as they enter the booth.

“Don’t worry, Sammy, it’ll be fine!”  


He certainly hopes so. Sometimes, he wishes that he’d be more like Daniel, more relentlessly and unabashedly _honest_. God, he hasn’t been- he tried to be. Has been, for the most part. But he knows it, the truth- the _real_ truth- isn’t out yet. The reason he came here. The reason he is about to leave. At times, it is easier to not have this out in the open, easier to hide his face. An unending character in his own damn play. But then he meets new people and sees things happen, and the mask starts to crack. With every encounter it starts to seep out of him, almost like a craving. He gets close, _real_ close, and then his mind starts to reel and the moment passes. There’s a man doing what he can’t do, blurting out honesty without blinking twice, and Sammy appreciates him for it. He just wishes he could be like that.

But he’s a coward, too.

* * *

Just a few more hours. Just a few more hours, and then that’ll be it. No drama, no surprises, just a sad Christmas dinner with a glass of cheap wine he doesn’t like anyway. Maybe a call home that will result in leaving a half-hearted voicemail. Sammy isn’t exactly sure why Merv had wanted them to do a belated Christmas Eve show, but he seemed persistent. In the mails, at least, according to Ben. The mails, of course, had never appeared in _his_ inbox. They never do.

It’s been an easy night, so far. They’d talked about the upcoming festivities, the market at the park. Cynthia had called in to debate the best way do prepare a Christmas roast, which even to Ben’s untrained chef’s ears sounded like a dumpsterfire waiting to happen. They polled the audience’s favourite Christmas tunes, which might have been a mistake on their part, and ended in a heated debate almost resulting in a rap battle over Wham!. It was a headache in the making.

“Now I think we can _all_ agree that _that_ is something nobody wants to hear,” Sammy says, trying not to sound exasperated and silently praying to whatever’s out there to _please make it stop_.  


“Hm, your right,” Ben seems to agree, “like that recipe you broadcasted, Cynthia! _No one_ wants to rub a whole chicken in mustard! No one! Imagine the hands-“  


“And the- benches. Countertops! Mustard everywhere, hmhm.”  


“Wha- what, Sammy? How do you prepare your food? Without cutting boards, like some barbarian?”  


“Exactly,” Sammy says, and then laughs. Ben smiles at him, shaking his head.  
“MOVING on- do you have any tips to top that recipe? Anything you want to get off your chest?”

Sammy pauses for a moment, feels a tug in his chest. It begins to trickle at the edge of his mask. He blinks, and the moment passes.  


“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re talking about whatever’s clever, but mostly Christmas. Give us a call on 424-279-“

And then the phone rings.

“Might as well be an early Christmas miracle.” Ben pushes the button. “Hello, you are live on-“  


“No, it’s not,” the voice on the other end cuts in. “Not a miracle. Otherwise I’ll have to look up the definition of a miracle.”  


“Uh, okay. So, what’s up tonight? Who are we speaking to?” Ben asks, confused throughout the whole ordeal.  


“How do I say this?” it almost sounds like the person on the other end is thinking. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe there’s a giant _triangle_ hovering over the fields I am driving past and _maybe_ it’s freaking me out a little bit. Just a teeny, tiny, teensiest bit.” The sarcasm is thick on the voice, which is sounding ever so familiar to Sammy. He just can’t-  


“Sir, are you all right? What’s going on? Can you describe what’s going on?”  


“I was driving around,” the voice clarifies. “Just driving along the fields because it’s quiet out there, and it makes my head- well. Quiet. Then I look  into my rearview mirror, and turn the radio down, and then-“ he pauses, and Sammy suddenly hears it. A whirring. A running car engine. A chopping. It sounds monstrous. He mouths a quiet _fuck_ and signs to Ben, readying his phone in case he needs to call _someone_. Troy.  


“Is there a farm nearby?” A beat.  


“Yeah, yeah I think so.” The engine is being turned off, and then the sound of a car door being slammed echoes. There’s something alarming about this escalation of this voice he only vaguely recognises. Ben senses it too.  


“What- what are you doing?”  


“Why is it- oh _come on_. I know I’m gay, no need to put it on display! What the everloving _fuck-,_ ” the person on the other end mutters to himself. Footsteps on gravel and the wind rushing through cornstalks.  


“Sir, what- what do you see?”  


“Oh _jesus_. Really? Cutter, is this one of your fucking jokes?”  


“Sir- we need to know what’s going on. Why are you-,”  


“Aliens? Really, after all this time?”  


After all this time? There's a caution, a sudden alert. An implication Sammy doesn't know how to process.

“Aliens?” Ben has also picked up on it. He scrambles to get some paper, chalks something down at a rapid pace whilst talking into the microphone. 

“Sir are you-“  


“Please call me Daniel. Or Jacobi. Whatever-,” he breathes as he starts stalking towards the object. He finds a stick, not sure what he will try to do  with it but feeling somewhat secure holding it. He has taken worse, probably.  


“Daniel?” Sammy tries not to yell his name. He can't- not now. No. It cannot-  


“Oh yeah, _fuck_ , sorry, I just-,” a sigh and the breaking of vegetation. “Got a bit distracted. I called because uh-,”  


“Sammy, look out the window,” Ben grits through his teeth, as far away from the microphone as possible. He’s got a manic look in his eyes, nothing but worry and anxiety. One look out of the window, and Sammy’s heart sinks.  


“The rainbow lights,” Sammy finishes it.  


“Is that what you call it? Go figure,” Daniel Jacobi mutters. The object keeps hovering. Why does it keep hovering? And why did it show up? He was supposed to be done with this bullshit. Beat one evil space cooperation and another one grows back.  


“Daniel- Daniel, listen to me, you have to get out,” Sammy urges, clutching his hand, fingers ready to press the button.  
“What I need, is to make these fuckers _fuck off_ ,” Jacobi says to gritted teeth. He has no plan at all. Exactly how he likes it.

Because see, there has to be a reason that, almost a year later, a spaceship shows up, radiating all sorts of weird lights. Exactly the kind of extra pizzazz Cutter would have loved. The ominous hovering and the fucking light show down to the size of that _weird_ vehicle. So if this is some sick joke, some _stick it up your ass_ send from above, then Jacobi is ready to fight it. And if it’s his boss- well, he’ll just have to use his fists. 

He grits his teeth and gets ready for a fight.  


“Daniel, please,” it’s Ben this time, “get in the car, and get out. Don’t hang up-,”

There’s rustling, obvious movement. The whirring of the UFO becomes louder and louder, until the voice yelling on the other line is almost drowned out by all the surrounding noises.  


“Show yourself! Whoever’s out there, Bob, or some other fucko, show your _fucking_ self!”  


It’s not like Jacobi is raging. It’s not like he’s seething.

He drags the branch along and stares at the monster.  


“Bob? Blue Apron Bob? Why would he be up there?” Ben whispers to Sammy, all confused. He signs for him to press the call button. With a tap, Sammy dials the number. On the other end, Jacobi is still screaming.  


“If you gonna come for me, come for me. I am tired, and I am done playing games. So Goddard, if this is some Lazarus joke, come down and face my wrath. Finish. What. You. Started.”  


He breathes in, slowly, and exhales through his nose. The ship is unblinking. He waits, unaware that the silence is filled by pleading voices from his phone. At that moment, he just looks to the fast void in between those lights, remembering all the faces lost before him, and he grits his teeth. They will not rip him from his life. 

When nothing happens, he spits a “fuck you,” and flips _whatever_ the fuck it is off. In one fluid, angry movement, he hurls the branch at the sky and turns around. He’s almost at his red mustang when he hears the moving of a whirring, and a blinking light that illuminates the whole road.  
Sirens. Jacobi hears _sirens_. It takes him a while to place the sound, because his blood is still boiling and he feels like crying and he is only now realizing how dangerously stupid it was to go up to a UFO and _hurl a stick at it_. He guesses he never really had a sense of self-preservation. 

Then he remembers the phone in his pocket, still broadcasting, still calling.  


“It’s starting to move,” he says, not listening to the answer. Maybe there isn’t one. Just a _fuck_ , uncensored, and a choked sound. A warning. _Get away_. The sirens are approaching. The sound of a gunshot is enough to make the first tear drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Guys, I’m almost there,” Troy assures the two hosts. “I’ve chased them buggers off once, and I’ll chase them off again. Now there ain’t nothing to worry about-“  
> “Troy, he was standing in a open field with the rainbow lights. The rainbow lights. I feel like we have every right to be worried.”  
> “Now I’m not saying you’re wrong Ben, but blind panic never helped anybody. Now if you excuse me fellas, I’ve got a citizen to safe, and a bastard to chase down.”


	12. Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consider this a teaser

** 17:59, the 26th of December, 2017 **

So. Rainbow lights. Merry _fucking_ Christmas. 

There’s a crash as Ben looks up from his research, scribbling hastily written down, lines and dots and sites and links and _anything,_ really. _Goddard_. He hasn’t heard the name before, can’t seem to find anything on them. There must be something- _something_ about them. 

It just doesn’t make sense.

There’s to many loose ends. Someone named Cutter. A Bob. Daniel Jacobi. 

That last name lingers. _Daniel Jacobi_. It sounds familiar. Come to think of it, he might’ve heard the name before. 

Ben replays the tape. The voice repeats itself, its words. That sound, that-

Oh.

_Oh._  


Oh no.

Ben silently thanks the Heavens for Troy. They’re safe, he reminds himself. Emily. Troy. Daniel. Tim, hopefully.

It doesn’t stop his heart from racing at the thought of these bruised skies with blinding lights. So when there’s a flash of light, a loud noise heard over the recording, his heart plummets. Something is falling, rapidly, plummeting towards the ground. Outside his window, a streak of light cuts through the sky like a knife. Then:

a creak,

a crack,

a crash.

He blinks, and the sky is on fire. 


	13. Gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is the bit that all started it. feels kinda weird posting it, especially seeing how short it is, but hey!

** 03:01, the 27th of December, 2017 **

“Jacobi,” is the first word on his lips. _Name_ , rather, mixed with the stale taste of alcohol gone bad in your mouth and a day of not brushing your teeth. It can’t have been a day, though. It has to have been _longer._

Warren Kepler wakes up on a shore with his wallet in the back pocket of his pants and a credit-card that somehow still works. There’s trees around him and a phone which he finds on himthat doesn’t have any contacts, but does, however, ring. It rings when he dials the first number, and then the second. It rings when his eyes are barely able to hold themselves open and the sun is too bright for the time of day. There’s no voicemail. 

He crawls to his feet. Gravity is a bitch like that. Kepler wonders how he is supposed to rehabilitate after all that time spent up in space. Walking is not what it used to be. 

He wants to call a cab, but he doesn’t. Instead, he drags himself to the nearest busstop, where he waits on the bench for a bus to arrive. He checks his wallet, where a few dollars reveal themselves to be. Bus money, then. The bus stops in front of him.

During the bus ride, Kepler lets himself think of readjusting. The way his muscles and veins and bones had changed, all because he was up in space. How his body would need to adapt once again. He gets up and manages to get off in an area that doesn’t look too unpleasant, so he gets out his creditcard and finds a place to stay the night. 

The place is anything but fancy. It’s not high-end like the ones Goddard would occasionally let him stay in, but it doesn’t come close to the cheap motels he would stay in during stake-outs. It has a name referring to either the trees or the town and a woman outside who is holding something that looks like a tape-recorder and a bottle of wine. He walks towards the door without staring. Somewhere along his line of work he has learned to do that. The woman eyes him, and he wonders how bad he looks.   
He doesn't think it matters.

* * *

In the middle of the night, his phone rings.  


He answers.


	14. Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? another chapter?

** 10:04, the 28th of December, 2017 **

There is something both exhilarating and terrifying about new opportunities. Renée Minkowski usually leans towards the former, but is also painstakingly aware of the latter.After all, there’s a lot to go right, but also a lot to go wrong. She has decided that this is definitely something that has gone _wrong_.

Renée carefully folds her cashmere sweater whilst some conspiracy channel is chattering in the background. It’s more what Doug usually listens to, but she needs to know. She _needs_ to know. The pictures are blurry, but there is a tug- a familiarity with the visuals she did not expect. Lines on metal where metal isn’t supposed to be.

Oh, deep down she already knows. She folds another shirts and tugs it in her suitcase. 

“Hon, what are you doing? I thought we were only moving in the new year,” Isabel says, walking into the bedroom.  
“Well, I think we better pack early,” Renée smiles, handing her phone to Isabel. 

“Oh,” Isabel says, observing the imagery on display. She scrolls, taking in the colours of a bleeding sky and an earth-sunken wreck. She lets out a breath. Then, lower: “ _fuck_.”  


“Yes,” Renée agrees, continuing her packing.  


“So, where are we going?” Isabel asks as she picks up a shirt she knows Renée likes, folding it and handing it over. The voices keep debating UFO-sightings and rainbow lights and other improbable things. But improbable things are not impossible. She listens in for a bit, listening to the drawl of a caller, a voice that makes her want to punch who-ever this person is immediately. Renée seems to be doing the same. When the show hits commercial, she answers.

“Where we were always going.”  


“That weird mountain town?”  


“Yeah,” she nods, closing the suitcase. “Where Doug got his new job.”  


“All inclusive,” Isabel muses. She sits down next to Renée, who leans in and rests her head on her shoulder. “King Falls.”  


“Hmhm.”  


“You know, I thought it would be over by now,” Isabel says, looking through the photos again. She’d really hoped she’d seen the last of that logo. You can’t get everything you wish for, though.  


“Me too,” Renée agrees.  


“You blow up one star,” Isabel mutters.

“Technically, we didn’t do that,” Renée chips in.  


“Yeah, but we destroyed the institute that did, so,” Isabel shrugs, “semantics.”  


It’s quiet for a while. Isabel thinks about Jacobi, with whom she had taken down Goddard. Who still hadn’t responded, just a _don’t worry, I’m off for a bit_. No phonecalls. No Christmas card. No address or text or _anything_. No sign, no signal.

It didn’t surprise Lovelace that Jacobi had ran off. Didn’t mean she liked it. Did she think it was rude? Sure, especially after they had just annihilated their former employer, wreaking havoc, getting revenge and dirty hands and scars and more nightmares. It had helped that Renée had shot Cutter with a harpoon- without that, Isabel doubt they would’ve been as successful as they had been. No, Isabel was not surprised Jacobi had gone- but they had spent a lot of time together. And Isabel missed him.

She regretted letting Jacobi fuck off to God knows where, drenched in sweat and sorrow and a weird amount of self-loathing which should not set in after bringing down an evil company. Emo bastard. Isabel supposes he’d always had a bit of dramatic flair. But she understands. When they’d come back to earth they’d been declared dead. Muscles were aching and they barely knew where they were. Doug only remembered parts of himself, a hollow echo of a man he thought he once was. And still- there had been a determination. For Isabel , it had been to take down whoever had done this to them, prevent it from ever happening again. 

Mankind was not made for the power the sky held. 

So she got to work. And when it was all over, well- it is hard to find purpose when you have served yours. So she needed to find a new one. And Jacobi- he probably did too. Isabel understood the reckless, restless ache which came after reaching a goal. It had always been the question that lingered in her mind: _what comes next_?

But here was the truth: he balanced them out. Doug had been downright anxious the first few days after his departure. He’d felt like he could’ve done something, maybe talked him down, or eased his mind. Isabel appreciated that about him- his caring for others, his willingness to help. She doesn’t think Doug could’ve helped, though.  
Doug had missed the conversations way past midnight, missed having Jacobi there munching on cereal dunked in iced tea in a bowl. He’d fallen out of rhythm, and he did _not_ like it. Living with Jacobi had become such a routine that living without him felt like missing a non-vital part of your intestines. They had done it before, and they’d be able to do it again, but it just wasn’t the same. 

Yeah, they better find the bastard.

* * *

** 06:41, the 29th of December, 2017 **

“Okay, ready, set-,” he clicks the send button, “go.” 

He blinks as he watches the screen change, then shuts his laptop. This was it. This was really it. There’s a soft knock on his door.  


“Doug?” he hears Renée ask. “Doug, are you ready?”  


“Almost!” he answers, looking around the now bare room. It’d taken him a good day to get it all tidied up and stacked away. Most of the things they would store in the car, but they posted a few boxes yesterday. They really _are_ leaving.

Only a week ago, he’d gotten a call, and then an e-mail. A conformation. The job application hadn’t really been something that he’d thought through, just a facebook ad he’d seen and clicked. Radio host in a small town, about two days a drive away. A vacancy in the midnight slot. 

He wonders who of the two hosts would be leaving. 

There hadn’t been any announcements as of yet. 

Officially, the job would not start until the first of may, or so the owner of the station had said. However, there’d been enough small jobs to do until then, daytime white noise to fill and ads he could run. Merv had never asked for a recording of his voice, but accepted his resume and hired him without any further questions. The only radio experience Doug had written down was College Radio Host. He couldn’t remember whether it was true.

Doug picks up the last of his things and throws them in a backpack. A book, his headphones, a pair of socks and a pair of underwear, a notepad and five pens, a pack of gum and a packet of cigarettes he’d never opened but had bought on autopilot. Something from a life he does not remember.

It was both liberating and excruciating. He could be whoever he wanted to be, because he could never be the person Renée and Isabelle and Jacobi and Hera had known. After listening to the recordings, he hadn’t been sure he wanted to be. It had taken him a long time to get to where he was today, without feeling guilty, without feeling like he had to fill shoes he had outgrown. 

He tugs at the USB-drive around his neck, feeling a wave of calm rush over him.  
He still has it. 

He still has _her_.  



	15. Glade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been busy for a while, and will be busy for a while! hope to keep updating this every two-three weeks though. Now, without any further ado, hope y'all enjoy!

** 08:02, the 28th of December, 2018 **

This was not how Jacobi had expected to spend the end of his year. No, scratch that, this was not how Jacobi had expected to spend _ever_. 

He hasn’t slept. He’d kissed his newly-fixed sleeping schedule goodbye the moment he’d heard the crash, heartbeat in his throat and unease in his limbs. His phone lighting up with a text from Sammy saying _you might want to see this_.

He’s wearing boots over his pyjama bottoms and a hoodie with a leather jacket over it, sunglasses over his eyes to protect them from the early December sun. _Where do I need to go,_ he wants to text. _Where do I need to go-_ he lets it ring inside his head.

Go. Go, go, go. Drive. You have done it before, and you will do it again.

He locks his apartment. With shaking hands, he turns the keys in his rusted mustang. For four minutes he just sits there, looking at the frosted window. Then he finds a snickers bar stuffed away somewhere around the passengers seat and eats it. He almost throws up. 

There’s a hum in his veins that now feels familiar. A flight response. But instead of running from it, he will now run towards it.  
Jacobi likes to think of it as character development. 

Alana would’ve probably called it suicidal. Jacobi’s not sure if he would agree. 

Sammy texts him the location. It’s not exactly in town, but not really out of it either. Somewhere in between. 

He doesn’t recognise the road. He doesn’t recognise the buildings, or the trees, or the way the light reflects on the asphalt. He doesn’t remember anything. He wonders if there’s anything to remember. There’s nothing nice about the itch under his skin, the hitch in his breath, the sudden rush of nerves and the tremble in his foot. He’s driving like a coward and he knows it. He can hear Kepler make some comment in his head, and _god_ if that hadn’t been a long time ago. He’d almost think he’d forgotten his voice. Wistfully.

Jacobi doesn’t know what he’d do if he’d ever forgot Warren Kepler’s voice. 

* * *

The GPS-location sends him to a glade. A forest clearing with endless pines and rocks and a shore and a lake that is not lake Hatchenhaw, he thinks. He might’ve driven up a footpath- the gravel is grey and there’s pieces of shells and not a lot of space for a car. He doesn’t care.

_You might want to see this_ had been texted. As if he’d slept through the enormous crash, a bang that cleaved through the tight night air surrounding a muggy blanket under which Daniel had tried to sleep, eyes tightly closed but ears wide open. Some things you just can’t ignore.

There’s headlights coming up the path, and engine turning off, the slamming of car doors. Footsteps on gravel. 

“Wow, what a dump,” are the first words to leave the visitor’s lips. Jacobi smiles. An undignified sound follows.  


“Ben, you can’t just say that! It’s a beautiful clea-,” Sammy says before grinding the sentence to a halt. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”  
  
The two men are turned towards the scene at Jacobi’s back, a view he hadn’t particularly admired. He thought he’d wait until the others’d get there.

No- he’d been afraid. He just doesn’t like to admit that, those feelings of- well. Those feelings. Feeling things has never been his forte. They didn’t _have_ to be. And they don’t have to be now, he reminds himself, a voice quivering in the back of his head. _You might want to see this.  
_

So _open your eyes_.  


He turns around, fully takes in the scene. The shivering tufts of grass, the air sneaking through the needles of the pines, the slightly damp forest floor. The shining metal splattered around. Chunks of scrap. A metal paint splat. A dystopian horror.

More specifically, _his_ dystopian horror. 

“Man, that really was a crash huh,” Ben says, moving closer to the bigger body, poking it carefully. He moves to stand up straight, scratching the back of his head. “Not really what I was expecting from a UFO.”  


“No, me neither,” Sammy agrees, before turning to look at his co-host. “Wait, you were expecting it to be a UFO?”  


“Of course! It’s not like it could’ve been a pack of werewolves colliding with a clan of vampires setting of some dynamite-“

“That’s because there’s no such thing as vampi-,” Sammy protests, before Jacobi interjects with a: “Why would vampires be setting off dynamite?”

Ben gives Sammy a pointed look.  


“See, he gets it!” Although Jacobi is not sure what he’s getting. They walk around the wreckage, and Jacobi sees how _funny_ it is. Something so big and so fast and so plump and so disruptive just put into a new environment. A _new perspective_. That’s the joke- it’s just like him. It is what shaped him, what made him, what destroyed him. Apparently, this is the day he meets his maker. And he does not like it one bit.

The metal is cold underneath his fingers, although by all accounts, it shouldn’t be. The paint job is damaged, the soaring heat having gnawed its way at the exterior. There’s a lock where a lock should be, a switch where a switch should be. Broken glass cutting up his fingers as his muscle memory takes over. They’d read manuals on this. They’d practice opening and starting and exiting them. Secure, lock, press on. Don’t think about it. Survive. Thrive.

Suddenly it’s hard to remember how to do that. It might very well be that Sammy and Ben are talking to him- he wouldn’t know. He just hears the sound of his loud _loud_ heartbeat in his ears, the rush of blood through his veins as he tries to keep his head locked in the present.  
There are a few instances in which he’d seen this; not the exact form, and not in this state, but similar and very different all the same. The first had been on the ground, just before their mission started. The second had been on the station itself, held in place and new and shiny, developed and crafted for them alone. The third time it had been scattered on a shore on the 26th of December, 2016, when he’d crawled out, head heavy and blood thick. It’d never been an easy landing.  
This must’ve been worse.

His heart aches as his eyes go over the letters again and again, as if that’d help him process them. Funny how there’s so much pain in such mess. Funny, how scrap metal holds so much heartache. Funny how a name can soak up so much.

He steps back, swallowing whatever he is feeling right now. He will let it simmer for a while, he thinks. And then, he’ll come back and face the wrath of a dying god with a ferocity unmade for mankind.

At once, he breathes.  
“This is no UFO,” he smiles wryly, then laughs a hollow laugh. “I know exactly what it is.” 

Ben inches closer, following his eyes on the pod. He gasps, softly, then breathes out the name that has tinged Jacobi’s lips for years.  
“A vessel for Goddard.”

~~ Like he had been. ~~


	16. Recorder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's high time we introduced someone, isn't it?

** 09:10, the 2nd of January, 2018 **

His back aches when he moves to get up. His limbs are heavy and weary. Not a single week back, and he already feels the weight of it all. He doesn’t even know if he’s the only one alive- he’s been thinking about that a lot, lately. He might as well be the only survivor. Only and lonely.

It’s not like he’d been surrounded by friends when he’d died, anyway.

There’s an uneasy feeling. Dying should come as no surprise to him. He knows what make a clock tick, how the gears work. Another cog in the system, yes, but that doesn’t mean he should like it. Death should be no surprise at all, given his track record. In all honesty, it should’ve happened sooner. He’d walked that line one too many times, sometimes out of choice, most of the time not. But it’s not the thought that he must’ve died- although like Lovelace he bears no memory of it, there’s only one logical conclusion- but that the others _might have_. Accepting the cold, unbearable emptiness of outer space was just that bit easier knowing the others would make it, and the world wouldn’t be blown to smithereens. But he’s here, after all. Which must mean _something_. 

So there’s something human left in him, after all. The others would’ve liked that.

Kepler vaguely remembers a time before he was employed, before he came colonel and lost his humanity bit by bit. A fight he didn’t expect to fight. He knows he must’ve had hobbies, must have enjoyed _doing_ things. Going to museums, reading, all those things. But in all honesty, he doesn’t remember a time he wasn’t either on a case or scouting or on the job. He can’t remember the last time he had _time_ to have hobbies. He can’t bring himself to do things now that he’s out- out of it- Goddard will not be expecting him anytime soon. No, Goddard will have covered up everything by now, like they always do. If he’d actually had any family he mattered to he’d been dead for years in their books by now. He doesn’t.

He needs somewhere with an internet connection. Somewhere he can access his sources, find out what happened. So he drags himself to the lobby and presents an excuse as a problem, tells them he needs to access his email but his phone is having technical difficulties. He’s being sent to the nearest e-café, meaning he pays the guy behind the counter money to use one of the computers in the basement. It’s a sullen room, morose, with nothing but two dented couches, a coffee table, two computers on a desk and a half-empty bookcase. The walls are a rusted red, as if bleeding out, almost painful, but mostly filthy. The dim lights only make the place more grim. A woman sits at the desk, nursing a bottle of wine, but too distracted to really drink. She has what Kepler assumes to be shoulder length hair put in a messy bun, notebooks and -pads spread out on whatever space the surface offers. She’s lean, with bags under her eyes and a somewhat vacant stare. She purses her lips as she types away. Kepler notices a recorder pushed to the side. He sits down next to her.

He knows how this works. He doesn’t say a thing, just turns on the computer. She’ll talk when she wants to. _If_ she wants to. Kepler opens the browser, types in the required address, makes sure everything is safe and secure. He would berate himself if he didn’t- Maxwell was far too brilliant a mind, and not remembering what she’d taught him would be more than a disservice. He enters the data where he needs to, logs into his accounts. No activity, no weird log-ins, no missing files. He’s not sure what he’d expected, but he somehow feels _relieved_.

There’s a hesitation before he opens a new tab. As if he’d find a future he’s not ready to face, not prepared for. Maybe he isn’t. But Warren Kepler is not one to go without a plan. He needs to know what he needs to know, what to do next. His fingers hover across the keyboard before he brings himself to bring them down. There’s no destruction of something already destroyed.

He leans back. The woman takes a sip of her wine, sets the glass down, and sighs. Kepler considers asking, eyeing the screen briefly before shifting his attention. He doesn’t ask. He takes a block of post-it notes and starts writing, clicking and typing and navigating this web he knows how to deconstruct. Then his hand starts to tremble.

He hasn’t had that in a long time

The only sensible thing is to take a break. To stare at the screen revealing those treacherous truths. To contemplate, reformulate. But for the first time Warren Kepler is at a loss.  
You can’t deconstruct something that’s already deconstructed.

He eyes the woman again, watches her move as he tries to get his hand steady. She shoves aside a picture, sending a stack of notes to the side, and onto the ground. She curses foulmouthedly. Kepler’s picked up the papers before she can do just that.

“Here you go,” he says, handing the papers back to her. He makes sure she can see he’s not been looking at them, that he isn’t watching. The woman’s eyes narrow.  


“Thank you,” she says, taking them. She turns towards her computer again, only to type a few lines before turning back. She eyes him. Kepler looks her straight into the eyes. The eye contact remains a few seconds, before the woman decides to drop her work and turn toward him.

“You know, you look way too rich to be in a place like this,” she states.  


“Do I?” Kepler asks, raising his eyebrows. The woman looks unimpressed.  


“Yes,” she affirms. “What brings you here?”  


“The motel, or the place?”  


“Both,” she answers without missing a heartbeat. Sharp. She leans back. Kepler lets the silence roll for a moment.  


“Unfinished business,” he lets the corner of his mouth quirk. “How about you?”  


“About the same,” she says.  


“Looks like it needs a lot of research,” Kepler says. She raises her eyebrows.  


“It does,” she says. She eyes him once more before she decides to open her mouth again. “Lily Wright, journalist, podcaster. Pleasure to meet you.”  


“Warren Kepler,” Kepler says, taking her outstretched hand. “Pleasure is all mine.”

With a quick smile he collects his notes, logs out and shuts down the systems.  


“Good luck, miss Wright. Hope you find what you are looking for.”

* * *

Warren Kepler checks the doors before he heads out, but only after he’s watched the windows. He knows where the dents on the bedframe are, where they stuck the mandatory bible, which plugs work and which light blinks for 1.4 seconds before it flickers on. There’s a pink pillow in the wardrobe functioning as a backup, and the mirror in the small and dingy bathroom is about two inches off-center to the sink. The room has not been bugged.

Warren Kepler cannot enter a room without an unhealthy dose of paranoia and the need to run the usual checks. It’s just one of the testaments to how his work fucked him up. He guesses he deserves it.

It’s not that he’s afraid. It’s just that he doesn’t know what to expect.

He walks outside, shirt straightened, hair combed. He’s wearing something from the lost and found box at the motel, something he is not particularly fond of, but needed to do. Adapt, blend in. His torn clothes would stir up too much. Of course, he’s cleaned the shirt the best he could. He does not like wearing stranger’s clothes.  


Walking outside, he can appreciate the cold air clinging to his skin. It's foggy, and he's not dressed for this cold winter weather. The pines crown around him, swaying softly as wind brushes past them. He walks for a while. Then, he stops. There's absolute silence around him, a looming sky coming down. He can feel the storm coming before he looks at the waking clouds. 

He flags down a car, mentally preparing before looking through the small car window that is now being rolled down. He puts on a friendly face as the woman leans over the passenger’s seat, asking him where he needs to go. He asks where she’s heading, she tells him she’s heading back to the library. One glance onto the backseat reveals it to be filled with books- must be an errand. He nods. For some reason, he is allowed into the car. They don't really talk- Kepler doesn't feel the need to, and the woman -Emily, as he learns after a few minutes- clearly feels the same way. When they arrive, he helps carry the books inside. She thanks him, he smiles, and that's that.

He's on his own again.

With grey skies and dark clouds ahead he starts wandering the streets of this small town he's found himself in. King Falls, the sign they drove past had said. Hand-painted letters on dark wood surrounded by pines. A neon-lit window of a diner, too. And finally, the library. King Falls, King Falls, _King Falls._

Kepler wonders if that name will be a curse.


	17. Archie

** 13:21, the 2nd of January, 2018 **

The trees rise tall outside the window, dark greens merging into blacks early morning. It’s so quiet they can hear the gravel scratching underneath the tires, skidding to the side as they make their way through the forest.

“Guys, is it me, or is this the third time we pass this sign?” Doug calls from the backseat.

“No, I think you’re right,” Renée says, scanning their surroundings. “Must be something wrong with that sign.”  


Isabel nods, then turns the car around in one swift motion.

“Let’s take another route than,” she smiles. Renée turns on the radio, letting the music pour out on a low volume. It shouldn’t be too far now- they’ve passed the first handpainted sign, so they’re close to where they need to be. If only this forest-

Sirens. Isabel curses. She knows how it looks- what the dangers might be. She won’t escalate anything, but she will not be caged.

She pulls over. The police car stops behind them. They hear a car door slamming close, and Renée puts her hand on Isabel’s knee to give a reassuring squish before turning her attention to the window. Isabel rolls it down.

“Good afternoon, fellas,’ the man says, peering into the car and tipping his hat ever so slightly. His nametag reflects stray sunlight, making it practically illegible. Isabel scans the metal quickly: dep. Troy Krieghauser. Okay.  


“Good afternoon, officer,” Isabel calmly says. “What can I do for you?”  


“Oh, I’m just here to give directions,” Troy says. Isabel relaxes a little at that. “See, we have this problem with one of our road signs, and we don’t want anyone getting lost all willy-nilly.”

“So where do we go?” Doug asks, leaning forward.

“You go straight ahead, then take a left turn at the end of this road, and after that a right. Shouldn’t be far too hard from there on.”  


“Will do, officer,” Renée says in that formal tone of hers, eyes friendly.  


“Well, off you go! And have a nice day,” Troy says, tapping on the roof of the car. He turns to walk away, then remembers something. “Oh, and if you’re having any trouble, feel free to call us,” he says, handing over a small card with a phone number. Isabel takes it.  


“Now have a good drive y’all.” With a final smile he walks back to the dispatch car. With a small sigh, Isabel regains her posture.  


“Time to go,” she says, and turns the engine on.

“Quaint,” is the first thing Renée says when they arrive at the town’s center. It’s nothing big of a town, but there is something about it.

Maybe quaint isn’t the right word, Renée thinks, but she isn’t quite sure what else to call it. It reminds her of towns making a living off of tourism and ski resorts, those towns that she would pass when she was little and on holiday with her parents. Where winter only seemed to make place for a perpetual summer. It wasn’t cold, though. It just felt like it should be.  


There are enough shops. A 7/11, a bookshop, even a Pomchi palace and a putput place. A church, too, for whenever she would need a place to worship. She finds it hard to imagine that after all this time, she does.

They drive past it.  


The maps leads them to an appartement building. They will be living on the ground floor, a generous living space with a small garden at the back. Plastic lawn chairs on a small patio, surrounded by gras and bushes- something for her to work on. Maybe Doug wants to help- Renée would like that.

* * *

** 16:22 **

It feels good to have something more permanent. Something tangible, some sort of goal- a future. Yeah, Doug supposes this is what it’s like to have a future.  


The apartment itself is nothing special, Spacious, actually, - bigger than anything they’d ever get in the city- and furnished, but apart from that- no. But it can be.  


See, Doug has a vision. An apartment with posters and subtle Star Wars references, with a basket with blankets next to the couch and a load of pillows. One with a hook for his headphones and a mainframe and the crew and _her_. One where he works as a radio host and saves up for Ann’s college funds, and one in which Jacobi or Lovelace or Minkowski manage to get that money to her, so that she can have a better future than he ever had. One in which he’s not an addict or a criminal or an ex-addict or broken- one where he can just be. In an apartment with ex-colleagues and good friends. And maybe a cat.  


He’ll probably have to convince Isabel.

Isabel is inspecting the fridge. While she paces the house, her pen moves and moves. Her suitcase graces the far-left corner of the room.  


“You can pick whatever room you want, I’ll get an inventory,” she’d said, so Doug guesses that’s what she’s doing: taking stock. To Doug it looks more like making a grocery list, but he’s not complaining. In all fairness, he’s quite hungry.

“Hey, Isabel, you think we should get a cat?”

“Not sure if the landlord allows it,” Renée answers, entering the room with a box full of books.  


“Aw, landlords are no fun,” Doug sighs, “guess I’ll have to go over the contract again.”  


“Sounds like a plan,” Isabel answers, “anything you need?”  


“Cereal. Oh, and uh- shampoo. And toothpaste,” Doug supplies. Renée snickers.  


“Please buy that in bulk.”  


“You can never have enough toothpaste, huh, commander?”  


Doug decides to tag along with Isabel to the 7/11, under the guise of helping to carry the groceries. In reality, he just doesn’t want to be alone.

There’sa ping as they enter the store, a familiar smell hitting them as the cold air hits their faces. Isabel raises her eyebrows.  


“How about,” she says, a smile creeping onto her face, “we make this a competition?”  


“Whoever’s at the register with their groceries first?  


“Loser has to do the laundry for the whole week.” Isabel tears the list in half.

“Fine,” Doug smiles, taking one half. “Try and beat this bad boy.”  


“Oh, I will,” Isabel replies, eyes gleaming. She counts down on her fingers. When the last goes down, she silently mouths ‘go’. She’s off before Doug can blink. But he knows speed won’t win the game. If anything, it’s a rookie mistake. It’s about precision. Timing. Mapping. Maybe scheming.

Oh yes, definitely scheming.

He grabs a basket and walks down the isles, not thinking to much about which brand to buy. It’s all edible anyway. They won’t die. And after years of mushed, artificially tasting space goo, about anything tastes nice.  
There’s a split second of doubt when he stands in front of the cereal isle. Does he get something he likes, or what Renée likes? Or Isabel? Or both? He could do both. 

There’s a lot of brands of cereal in this small store. Flashy packaging with chemical looking food. His hand is hovering in front of a particularly terrible looking box when he feels a push against his shoulder. His hand shifts forward, pushing the box of the shelf and onto the ground. He tries to grab it, but instead just casts it away. Before he can curse, someone is bowing to pick it up.

“Oh, excuse me! Didn’t mean for that to happen darlin’,” the man smiles. “Terribly sorry.”  


“Oh, uh, thanks, I guess,” Doug stammers, taking the box from a stranger.  


“No problem at all! Here you go!” the man says cheerily before smoothly turning on his heels. He brings his attention back to his company.

“So, as I was saying Sheila,” Doug hears him say, “that man was built like a house! And he definitely is new in town because I would remember seeing a pair of buttocks that perfect! Better yet, I would recognize them. So Margareth told me she saw that pretty little librarian with him, and you know I ain’t one to gossip _but_ -,”  


“Well I don’t know. She seems like an honest madame. I think last I heard she was seeing that frog boy-,”  


“Oh puh-lease Sheila, she really shouldn’t. Everyone knows that radio kid is head over heels. But pay attention! We were talking about the newest hottest piece of ass in town. All military and straight- well, hopefully _not_ but- thank _you_ for your service indeed! Too bad his face was all bruised and all-,”  


Strange.

Doug takes two boxes and dumps them into his basket. At the register Isabel stands, victorious. She laughs at him.

“Took you way too long,” she says, plastic bag in hand.  


“Got distracted,” Doug says. “And maybe had an internal crisis over cereal.”  


“Don’t we all,” Isabel nods. “Find anything interesting?”  


“Well, apparently some hot Sergeant is wandering around town.” Isabel frowns at that.  


“What do you mean?”  


“That’s what I heard,” Doug shrugs. Isabel’s smile disappears. That’s- _strange_. “Why?”  


“I think," Isabel sighs, "we might need to talk.”


	18. Sent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> busy weeks, so less busy upload schedule! anyway, hope you enjoy some...happy notes somewhere

** 09:31, the 4th of January, 2018 **

Almost cautiously, Jacobi would say that he’s feeling good. Maybe even great. How would he know? There have been so many series of crap events he’d almost forgotten- so he guesses this is it. Ease.

No, not ease. He has too much time on his hands and too few friends and not many hobbies. Too many nightmares and thoughts to keep him up at night. So no, not ease. But he can rest whenever he wants, and to Jacobi, that’s worth a lot.

So, life feels like he’s allowed to breathe again. There’s fresh air inside his longues and a chill upon his skin and a somewhat nutritious meal inside his stomach, mostly thanks to Sammy. So, Jacobi doesn’t have much, but he has _this_. A healthy eating pattern. It’s more than he is used to have. It’s all good.

There’s something- unlonely about this place. It’s hard to be lonely here, even though Jacobi doesn’t pretend he never feels lonely. There’s lost friends and people left behind and people who’ll never return. But there’s also Sammy Stevens, who kicked his ass into learning to care for himself, and there’s Ben to fuel his restless nights with problems other than his own. There’s that Pete he sometimes runs into, who always seems up to _something-_ but not in the Cutter way. No plotting, no scheming. Just- whatever.

He listens to Sammy Stevens. It’s an odd balance he doesn’t want to disrupt, but there’s something brewing. Storm at sea. What is going on with Sammy Stevens?  


It scratches the surface, barely, and just once. A murmur between two breaths and a panicked look. The twist of a ring around his finger, glistening in the lamplight. Jacobi had almost asked. Almost. But there’s some things you don’t ask about.  
Some things need to be told.

It’s cold when he steps outside. He doesn’t have anywhere to go or to be, but the skies are clear and the frost is sticking to the windows, so Jacobi decides to put on an ugly, multi-colour knitted sweater, a clashing scarf and a hat that’s ugly enough to complete the look, and open the door. Clear cold skies might be his favourite, barren trees and dancing lights surrounding the pavements. Happy days.

The first stop is the café, where he pets some of the jet black cats whilst waiting for his coffee. He gets a cup of some awfully teeth-rotting mixture to go, and makes his way down the park. He’s cold. He doesn’t mind.

Jacobi remembers stake-outs like this. Endlessly waiting in a silence only broken by the ambience. Of course it’d be different when they were in public’ hushed conversations and off-hand jokes, anything to appear normal. Meals in restaurants and being suited up for art galleries. Gleaming ties and impeccable shoes. Classical concerts if their target was particularly high-profile or well of.

Jacobi isn’t sure whether those all were missions.

He tears a piece of his muffin off and throws it at the pigeons surrounding the bench. Somehow he doesn’t feel hungry anymore. The pigeons appear happy enough. Jacobi soon realizes his mistake.

He is in the middle of throwing a chunk as far away as possible when something - _someone_ \- catches his eye. A gray coat. Ill-fitting jeans and bruises on the cheek. A burgundy scarf and pale eyes. Desperation and anger and disbelief and panic, so much _panic_.

He gets up. The words on his lips are a mere ‘no’ repeated in cycles and pairs and trios. There is a split second in which Jacobi realizes he’s making a decision, but when he’s moving the decision’s already made.

He stalks towards the figure, feverishly looking for a way out, but knowing he doesn’t want to. There’s only this, them, and the grief and anger and unpreparedness and overwhelming _surprise_ of the situation. There’s rage. _God_ , there’s so much _rage_.

“You don’t get to come back,” he spits as he approaches the stranger. The man turns around, bags under his eyes and a tired smile that reaches nothing but his lips. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and Jacobi hates how that observation makes him feel.

“Daniel-,” the other starts, but Jacobi cuts him off. 

“No,” he says firmly, “don’t call me that. You-,” he points his finger to the man’s chest, “you don’t get to come back.”  
He doesn’t care about the hot streaks running across his face, doesn’t give a damn that he bites his lip so hard in frustration he can already feel the swelling. He doesn’t give two shits about his boiling blood or surroundings. He cares that he cares. And he hates it.

Because he’d almost convinced himself that he didn’t, and everything becomes undone.  
“Yet here I am,” the man says after a small sigh. Jacobi can’t read his expression. He breathes in, holding his body eerily still.

“And I hate you for it,” he lies. He doesn’t turn away. He can feel his former boss’ eyes on him, an unhinged sadness and desperation and relieve tinging the sweet winter air. He moves, and Jacobi lets him. Leaving a piece of paper in his hand, he says:  
“Call me when you’re ready,” and turns on his heels.

Jacobi catches a glimpse of wetness in his eyes.

By the time he gets to the appartement, he’s shaking from head to toe. There’s a quiver in his knock, but that doesn’t matter. He’s reeling.

_Spiralling_.

Sammy opens the door, sleep in his eyes and shirt rumpled. His confusion immediately turns into concern when he sees Daniel Kenneth Jacobi unravel, almost swaying, breathing hard. He opens the door without hesitation.

It takes Jacobi half an hour to talk, the paper wrinkled in his hand, and hollow eyes. There’s nothing but tears, and when he finally manages to speak, he swears loudly and suppresses the urge to throw the table on its side.

When Sammy Stevens puts his arms around him, tentatively, he crumbles. 

There’s no pretty way to say that he breaks down.

Sammy rests his chin upon Jacobi’s head, stroking his upper arm with one hand and hushing him quietly, gently. Jacobi cries until his eyes sting and his throat hurts and he’s tired of bleeding emotion. Then he cries some more, until he’s simply tired and drained and _done_. 

There are no victories.

Sammy doesn’t push, because he never does. Jacobi is grateful. At some point, he doesn’t hear his own thoughts. There’s only a mutter, a mere whisper. A ‘he’s back’ he can’t yet explain, but Sammy seems to understand nonetheless. He shivers.

* * *

As the bathroom light flickers to life, Jacobi looks in the mirror. The clippers whir. 

It has to go. It reminds him of them, so it has to go.

There’s an uncommon sense of calm washing over him as the strands of hair fall down, as if he’s reminded of who he is. Without him.

Ludicrous. 

There’s not a word that has lef his lips since- well, since. He’s not sure there’s anything left to say.

He fears he might have too much left to say.

He lets the whirring calm his senses; in the moment it’s all there is, shitty bathroom lighting and the cutting of hair and the ignoring of the blank look on his face. A steady breath.

He undresses and steps into the shower.

There is nothing that could’ve prepared him for this. There’s thoughts and dreams and theories and fantasies, but none are quite the same- an none of them prepared him. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He should’ve known- could’ve known. The metal reflecting in the moonlight and the letters and locks- even Goddard can’t make the dead stay dead. They came back, after all. So why couldn’t he?

There was an unfairness. An unfairness to it all. There had been betrayal and a plea and a stab- a soft _goodbye_ that was never meant to be heard by his ears, that never should’ve been uttered. A disbelief. A lot of disbelief.

Jacobi hadn’t really thought about the ending. Not at all. He didn’t like it- it was not how it was supposed to go. Not how it should’ve gone. Kepler should’ve shown some humanity, should’ve come with them, should’ve left them and their rotten work behind. He should’ve had a plan.

Warren Kepler alwayshadaplan.

Jacobi stands there until the water runs cold and his head starts to hurt. Then he gets out of the shower, dresses, and sits down at his bed. In the middle of the night, alone and alone and lonelier, his face is lit by the faint glow of his screen. His fingers hover. One movement. One _tiny_ movement. 

He puts the paper down next to the picture. In a shaky breath, he mutters ‘goodnight Colonel’.

Then he presses _send._


	19. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter? it's more likely than you think! (might have a few emotions, might have a lot). In any case, hope y'all'll enjoy it!

** 17:48, the 6th of January, 2018 **

Jacobi waits outside the diner, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched. He probably should’ve worn something warmer. He couldn’t bring himself to.

There’s a lot of mixed feelings. Knowing that Warren Kepler is alive doesn’t help that- it still makes his heart jump and his skin itch and his stomach flutter. He doesn’t know what to think. There’s too many thoughts bouncing around. There’s probably things he hasn’t heard.

He wonders if he wants to hear those.

Jacobi doesn’t expect an explanation. No reasons. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he expect answers, either. There’s too many things- too many questions. So it’s better not to expect. He still hopes, though.  


His eyes scan the parking lot, moving over the asphalt and the parked cars. There’s a light gray sky ahead, packed with clouds. The tiniest snowflakes start to fall down, wet but still visible.

When Kepler walks towards him, it’s almost a monochrome. 

“Mr. Jacobi,” Kepler says, suddenly formal. Jacobi raises his eyebrows.

“Colonel,” he acknowledges, returning the formality. They stand there for a moment, neither talking nor moving. Kepler is the first to let his eyes wander, taking in the neon glow screaming behind the steamed up window. He looks like he wants to make a sound, a comment, and then he doesn’t. He pushes open the door long enough for Jacobi to enter; Kepler follows. They sit down at one of the booths, the seats a red leather, with plasticized menus lying in front of them and between silence and unsaid words. Jacobi would consider it awkward if he didn’t feel so damn nervous.He takes one of the menus in his hands, lies it in front of him. Kepler does the same, pretending to scan it. It’s only after their orden is taken that they speak.  


It feels like a heart-attack.

“You wanted to talk,” Kepler states. It’s not a question. Of course it’s not. Jacobi thinks about it for a moment, shakes his head. Looks the colonel straight into his eyes, even though it scares him, and it makes his heart hiccup. It’s a confrontation. The confrontation.  


“No,” he says, barely even speaking. He scrapes his throat. “No, I came to listen.”  
There’s an immediate change in Kepler’s face, his expression changing from tense to something more- _relaxed_. Open. Surprised. 

Kepler leans back a bit, resting his head against the back of the seat. Where Jacobi would expect a smirk or a knowing, calculating look, he now just sees grief. Exhaustion.

“Okay,” Kepler says in some mutual understanding Jacobi didn’t expect. The nod of his head is small. “Okay,” he repeats, shifting positions. “What do you want to know?”  
He doesn’t ask what Jacobi’d want to hear. He didn’t come to lie. Besides, Jacobi would hate it.

For a full minute Jacobi remains silent, dumbfounded. He swallows, and then his expression changes. A furrow of the brow, his mouth a line.  


“Wh- what I want to know?” Jacobi asks, incredulous. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something like ‘ _how_ are you here?’ Something like ‘what happened’ or _maybe_ ‘how did you- _why_ \- how did you not die when you left m- us? Maybe something like what, and why, and _when-,_ ” there’s a tremble in his voice, a breath he hasn’t yet taken stuck in his throat. Suddenly, talking is easy. Jacobi clings to it.

“How- _why_ did it take you so long?”

There’s a consideration. Kepler’s thinking about each of the questions; Jacobi can see the small line just above his eyebrows, the microscopic movement of his eyebrows. The purse of his lips-

“Mr. Jacobi,-”  


“What?” It’s hot and sharp, and spiteful. But it doesn’t contain any anger- doesn’t have bite. Jacobi wishes it did. Kepler doesn’t react, doesn’t show surprise or amusement or anger. He mostly looks _worried_.  


“How long have you been here?”  
Jacobi blinks, guns mentally a-blazing, taken aback by the question. He can feel the fire dying. As he lets his hand glide through his hair, he reminds himself he didn’t come here for an explanation. There are questions even Warren James Kepler can’t answer.

Jacobi counts back the days and answers Kepler truthfully. Thirty-eight days.

“And before that?” Kepler asks, and Jacobi _gets_ it. It’s not a question of when and where. It’s merely a question of _when_. There’s something not lining up in Kepler’s timeline. So he gives the date, the time, the place. There’s a flicker in the colonel’s eyes, and when the waiter comes to bring their meals, his former boss simply asks for their strongest likeur. 

Jacobi doesn’t understand.

“So Goddard,” Warren begins, trying to keep his head from reeling. A year. A year he’s missed out on. One year more. A lot can happen in one year. Empires have been built in less time. Fallen, too. Corporations. Jacobi seemingly flinches, ever so slightly. “That was you?”  
Something flashes across Jacobi’s face, an emotion shifting and merging and morphing, until there’s just one uneasy look left. A question of how before he gets reminded. There is no surprise, but there is a consideration.

“Yeah,” Jacobi confirms, brown eyes briefly on his before looking away. “Me, and Lovelace.”  
He doesn’t register Warren perking up, ever so slightly. Doesn’t notice the unspoken thank you never leaving his lips in more than a sigh. Doesn’t notice his tentative hands and doubt.

When Jacobi looks back at the former colonel, he just sees sadness.

“I missed a lot,” Kepler says, and it’s more a statement than anything else. There’s no harshness. Jacobi allows himself to show his emotions, let’s them on display. His hands hovers in silent disagreement and quiet contemplation. He puts them down on the table.  


“Me too,” he says, shifting his gaze to the food in front of them. His fingers tap mindlessly. THere’s a jolt as he feels a warmth dancing at his fingertips, a sensation quickly ebbing away as Warren restrains himself. Instead, the pale, scarred hands move to the cutlery, and Kepler starts eating. Jacobi takes a deep breath, only stealing a glance, then follows suit.  


“So what did I miss?” Kepler asks, attempting any sort of casual normalcy, and Jacobi suddenly realizes how much he hates this version of Kepler. Polite, political, dulled down Kepler. It’s much easier to listen to nonsensical stories if you don’t have to tell them.

Of all things passed, he doesn’t _know_ what to tell Kepler. THere’s not much to tell. He doesn’t want to share his mission, the taking down of an empire, the endless nights and the emptiness after. He doesn’t want to share the feeling of hands clutching his heart and throat, fingers scratching at veins, or the firm grip of fear of the hollow. He doesn’t want to share the loneliness or inside jokes or even the cat names he had learned over the course of time.

Maybe it’s because he feels like he hasn’t been living that he doesn’t want to share. Maybe.

Just getting by doesn’t make that great a story.  
So he shrugs “nothing much”, and the look Kepler shoots him is almost pitiful. Jacobi hates it.

“You’ve done well,” Kepler then says, softly. Jacobi would like to know how he drew that conclusion, but there’s an gleam in his eyes and an emotion Jacobi doesn’t understand. Kepler doesn’t look directly at Jacobi, not at first. There’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards ever so slightly.  


He considers leaving. Considers that, maybe, Daniel deserves better than this. Better than him. Someone out of touch with his own humanity and lost in his state of being. With a strange unhappiness and dread in his stomach. Kepler has never let himself be lost. He didn’t like the danger- there had always been _something_. A calculation, a risk, a plan. Something to hold onto. Warren thinks that, maybe, possibly, definitely, he’d be fine being lost if he’d Jacobi. If he could keep this, whatever this is. A past. A present. An unprecedented spark of hope he is desperate to stomp out. Something he’d never been allowed to have.

A past. A present.

A future.

But men like him didn’t deserve redemption. So he keeps his mouth shut, uncharacteristically, and finishes his meal while Daniel studies him.

Jacobi never disagrees with the words he has spoken.

There’s a change in atmosphere. Neither are sure what to say, so they just sit in silence until their drinks run out and the diner empties out. Outside the snowflakes glister in the light, sticking to the windows and dwindling towards the ground. A smile tugs at the corner of Warren’s lips.

“You remember that mission in France? Where we went to visit the Alpes-,”  


“-and we got stuck in a chalet with ten other people,” Jacobi snorts. Kepler looks at him. “Yeah, I remember,” he smiles, his voice soft. There’s a sense of relief. Kepler wonders if he should apologise. If he should say something about the crash- talk about Rachel Young. About the reason he didn’t come with them, the line he’d drawn. The end of it all.

He casts a look op Daniel Kenneth Jacobi, and is suddenly remembered.

_ There is no redemption.  _

“Sir,” Jacobi asks, almost cautiously. “What’s wrong?” _  
_

“Nothing,” Warren says, a lie he’s sure Daniel catches. He doesn’t try to hide it, not really. He tries to shake the dreadful feeling itching at his throat. Daniel’s expression softens. He fumbles with something, a piece of paper Warren almost recognises. Jacobi shakes his head, ever so slightly. He can’t put his fingers on the _what_ or the how of his feelings. It isn’t all anger, no. No fangs and claws and teeth. No ticking bombs or red wires, but no calm waters either. No blue skies on a cold morning, no fields or sunsets or star-brimmed nights. There’s hurt. Anger. Concern. Exhaustion. There’s feelings mirrored, and this: two men at a diner, hands open, cards shown. A buried past and a torn present. A lot to process. Tears to cry and laughter to bellow and maybe, somewhere, seeds to plant. Something to grow. A flame to kindle.

Jacobi thinks it’s time to hold a candle to his own darkness.

* * *

When Warren James Kepler walks away, he turns the crumpled paper in his hand. On one side reads his phone number, written in a neat cursive. The other side simply names an address. A number, a street, a town. Jacobi’s. And before that, in tiny, scratched out capitals, a note unfinished, a thought interrupted. The smallest of words.

~~ ‘Stay’ ~~


	20. Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been almost a month, which for me was a very busy month. For a moment there I was worried that I had lost my juice, but hey, I'm back! Hope y'all enjoy!

** 16:07, the 9th of January, 2018 **

It is cold when Doug wakes up, tired eyes blinking open. When he stretches, his hands touch the heater. No warmth. No searing-hot pain, no mildly annoying burning sensation. He groans.

Working nights has his system messed up in all sorts of way he didn’t know were even possible. Living up in space, in constant darkness, was one thing. Living at night was another.

He throws the blankets aside, stretching and yawning, scratching the itch just below his ribs. The USB feels warm against his chest, a surety on a silver necklace.

“Good morning, Hera,” he murmurs, unsure whether she’ll hear it. He says it anyway. He throws on a shirt and a navy sweater, easy slacks and two stray socks lying around his room. He ties his hair back. 

When he walks into the kitchen, nobody’s there except for Roomba. The cat meows loudly as he opens the cupboard.  


“Hi little nightmare kitty,” he crows as he squats, the young black-and-white cat running towards him. She sniffs his hands expectantly, butting her head against his knee, then going back to see if he’s holding anything. He’s not. She meows again, only just accepting the scratches Doug provides before running off again. Doug smiles to himself, and then opens the fridge. A jar of pickles, some mayonaise, milk, yoghurt. Nothing he really feels like eating. Some left-over mac’n’cheese. That’ll do. 

He whistles as he puts on the stove. There’s a silver lining to this day he’d almost forgotten about. A plan. Something to put in motion. A big day, indeed. He hasn’t told anyone about it. There’s not much to tell, yet. _Yet_. But there will be. 

It’s time to bring this baby home. 

He smiles. After chewing down the reheated leftovers, he shrugs on his coat, scratching Roomba one more time behind her ears before tactically blocking the door before she can get out.   


“Your mommas will be home soon,” he says as he softly closes the door. “Byebye kitty.”

* * *

Doug makes his way downtown, picking up a quick coffee at the cafe before strolling through the park. His breath forms little clouds in the air as he breathes, and he silently wishes he’d put on a beanie. His ears are freezing off his head. 

Doug Eiffel likes living in King Falls, because no one expects him to be someone. No one expects him to be known. No one expects- well. No expectations. Except from maybe Renée and Isabel, but he thinks _maybe_ he can live up to those. He’s trying, anyway.  


There is somewhere he needs to be. See, he’s been snooping around. He’d feel guilty it wasn’t about the most mundane, humane things. The phone book, some folders. Things he’d found lying around the station. Some photos, some scribblings. Not a lot of things that made sense- certainly not that random page that seemed to belong to a notebook, with diagrams and talk about rainbow lights and glyphs in a cornfield. Tiny sketches and enough arrows pointing towards underlined words. That one, Doug had put back. But there were plenty of other things that had made him get to know the town.   
It was funny how nobody said the word ‘aliens’ out loud. It was even funnier that-

what?

What did Douglas Ferdinand Eiffel know?  


-that- _technically;_

_technically-_

Douglas Ferdinand Eiffel was one now. It is not something that crosses his mind often, but at times, flashes come back to him. Something had happened up into that vast, big unknown. It is like a jigsaw puzzle most of the time. Doug doesn’t like puzzles.

So, nobody says the word ‘alien’ out loud. They mostly say ‘rainbow lights’ and ‘abduction’, but that’s strange, isn’t it? Because it is not- not- the thing Doug encountered. Whatever is going on in this town- well. Doug would bet it’s not aliens.

Maybe it’s some evil corporation. It’s always evil corporations.

That’s not the point. Point is, he’s got somewhere to be. So he makes his way down the streets, to the shops, to the electronics section of whatever store he has found himself in. He needs a laptop, something with enough memory and power to house a mind of its own. And an alarm, because he can’t keep throwing his phone across the room without it inevitably breaking. He browses the shelves, until he stumbles upon something he likes. Pulls out a note from his pocket, too, because Isabel and Renée had talked to him about it- the pre-requisites, the required RAM and all other things Doug knows next to nothing about. In times like this, it’d be great to have a-

someone. Maybe- Jacobi?

Probably.

Picking up the right model, he puts it down in his basket. Checks his phone, see if he got any response.

  
He has.

  1. new message:  
 _Meet me at the gates_



As he walks down the street, Doug hears a faint yelling. He turns his head, but keeps walking. Maybe they’re not calling his name. Maybe he’s just mistaken. There’s more people called-

“Hey! Eiffel!” 

Doug keeps walking, slowing his pace and looking back every so often. There’s nothing- no one- he recognises. The yelling persists.

“Doug!” then some muttering. “HEY! I’m _here_!”   


The yelling doesn’t help, though. Doug squints, vaguely identifying a possibly Jacobi-shaped figure. Black hair with a blue sheen to it. Some pastel-coloured hoodie that is too big with a big leather jacket on top of it. Flipflops? Yes, those are definitely-  


“Daniel?” Doug frowns, but the yelling has stopped, and the figure has disappeared into the crowd. Doug picks up his pace, heart racing. He shoots Renée a text. Would he know-

no. Why would he know. It doesn’t seem likely-

‘ _Just because you haven’t run into the colonel doesn’t mean he hasn’t_ ,’ supplies a helpful sounding voice in his head. Doug breathes in. Doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. He know he’ll talk about it later, when the dinner table is set and either Renée or Isabel managed to not burn dinner. It’s not like they’re bad cooks- well, Renée definitely is. Isabel just lacks the patience. They’ll have dinner. Doug will show the laptop and try to teach Roomba some manners. He’ll casually mention Daniel and Renée will probably choke on her wine.

Okay, maybe he won’t tell at dinner-time. Maybe- maybe later.

It’s not like he can be sure anyway.

* * *

He makes his way out of the center, towards the edges of town, where the trees grow taller. A gravel pathway leads him to where he needs to be. There’s a manor looming over him, all spikes and shadows and dimly-lit rooms, lights visible through chequered windows.

The closer he gets, the more he feels like he shouldn’t be there.

His heart beats louder with every step he takes. His palms are sweaty in the pockets of his coat, and he is awfully aware of the one he’s holding close to his heart. But she’s there, and he’s here, and _he_ is also here. And most of them don’t know. So he takes a step closer to the iron-wrought gates, as he sees a young man with endless freckles and a deep tan skin, hair sticking out from under a backwards turned baseball cap. He’s wearing a hoodie pushed up to his elbows, with dirt stained over his jeans and arms.  


“Good,” he says, opening the gates. “You’re here. We have to be quick though, before mr.B3 wakes from his beauty sleep. He doesn’t like strangers on his property.”  


“Uh, okay,” Doug says, confused. The man closes the gates behind him, and signs for Doug to follow him. They make their way over the lawn, up to the manor, past numerous white rosebushes and other flowers which are not in their prime. There’s a lot of rosebushes, though. Doug finds it unsettling.  


“Why am I following you?” he asks, his voice a mere whisper. It feels appropriate.   


“Oh, you don’t know?” the guy says, his tone various stages away from hushed. “I thought I told you. Must’ve forgotten.” He shrugs. “You’re following me because I know my way around the house. And because there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  


“Hmhm,” Doug frowns, kicking up his own tempo a bit. The gardener seems to be hastened.   


“We did agree on the-,?”  


“Yes,” Doug nods. “Yeah we did.”  


“Good. Perfect. Then I can maybe buy some new Ducttape for my Corolla. My baby needs it.” It’s more mumbling than good conversation. Doug follows the young man as he pushes open the doors, kicking aside his mud-stricken boots at the porch. He waits for Doug to step inside.   


“If I may-,” the young man walks further into the hallway, socks connecting with a red carpet, lights illuminating his features. Around them, walls rise, tall and stately, decorated with wooden panels and big portraits. He looks around the room, climbing up the stairs and going down again, pushing open one door and closing the other. Then, a smile appears on his face. He raises his eyebrows, clearly contempt. He clears his throat. “If I may-,”   
He turns around, then steps aside, revealing a figure behind him.  


_“_ I’d like you to meet- _Celestia.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, doug eiffel still got the brainscrambles eh? just happy that those didn't turn as sad as I expected them to. Also, can you guess what he's up to?


	21. Honest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been a while. My original plans for this chapter were longer, and then I got busy, and this turned out pretty long. I'm not entirely sure about the interactions between these two- I might be a tad bit off with characterization. Nevertheless, I hope y'all enjoy!

** 16:58, the 9th of January, 2018 **

Jacobi kicks a pebble as he’s walking down the sidewalk. He’s wandering aimlessly, not having anywhere to go. He’s just mostly trying to clear his head- he has to. How the hell would he otherwise process the shit- _things-_ Kepler has said to him?

He isn’t angry though. He really isn’t. It’s just- something to think about.

His hear involuntarily skips a beat. He can feel the heat rise to his cheeks, and tries to hide in his pale lilac hoodie. He probably looks dumb, but he doesn’t care.

He’s a fool anyway.

Another pebble gets kicked away, and Jacobi tries not to regret wearing flipflops. Naturally, he does. Flipflops aren’t made for kicking stones around. He curses as one gets stuck beneath his toes, shaking his foot until the thing drops. Goddamnit. He really needs a hobby. Maybe he could paint. Make some abstract art. Can’t be too hard, right? Yeah, maybe. Maybe.

His train of thought is interrupted by a familiar sight. Jacobi squeezes his eyes together, trying to determine if the 5’8” brown-skinned figure with black hair tied back really _is_ Doug Eiffel. He furrows his brow.  


“Eiffel?” he hesitantly asks, voice soft and low and definitely not audible. He stops in his tracks.  


“Hey, Eiffel!” he yells across the street. The figure doesn’t turn around, but slows down instead. Jacobi picks up his pace again.  


“Hey!” then: “Doug!” 

No reaction. No turn of the head. Some other people do look at him, confused. He doesn’t care. 

“I’m _here_!” He waves his arms for good measure, but there’s still no response. His heart drops. Maybe it isn’t- but it _has_ to be. He’d recognize that scar f  anywhere. The way his hair is tied. The irregularity in his pace. So maybe it isn’t- but it has to be. Otherwise- well, maybe some part of Jacobi misses them. And that’s a more terrifying reality to face.

He keeps moving along the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for a cloud of dark curls, for a familiar face, or a sign. When he finally spots the figure again, he’s moving out of the crowd, disappearing towards the edge of town. Jacobi follows.

Maybe it should strike him as odd, or maybe he should feel guilty. But there’s only so much that you can preserve in a special taskforce. Only the biggest and baddest guilt gets to stay.

Jacobi tries not to think about it.

Seeing the person alone leaves no doubt in his mind. Separated from the rest, he can see all kind of mannerisms. The voice, of course, is a dead giveaway. Eiffel’s always muttering to himself.

Jacobi keeps his distance as Doug walks up to the gates of a large mansion. If this is where Eiffel needs to be, he should stay out of sight. There’s another man walking towards the fence, freckles riddled all over his face, tight brown curls poking out from under his snapback. Says something to Eiffel, lets him in. Closes the gate. Jacobi tries to analyse his facial expression, but there’s nothing standing out to him. Kepler was always the one who was good at this, not him. He just mostly made things go Kaboom. 

He contemplates staying. Waiting, loitering around. He has no idea how long it’s going to take. He contemplates leaving. No. He can wait it out. He should be _able_ to wait it out.

He sits down at the side of the fence, pulling out his phone to play a game of snake. After a few rounds, he puts it away, stares into the forest, alert to any potential sounds. His hearing is focussed on the gate in particular, but he knows not to hyperfocus. He notices a lot of trees. Not just in the forest- the yard too. Why would anyone want so many trees in their yard if they already live in a forest? Jacobi doesn’t think he’ll ever fully understand the people in this town.

Climbing to his feet again, he notices ivy covering the side of the manor. It’s nothing like the upstate monstrosities, all white and bright and shiny new. It’s nothing like the townhouses either- it’s built and rebuilt and torn down and rebuilt again and ancient. Ugly, jagged, crooked, and old. Imposing. 

Jacobi turns around, scouting the area. In the distance, the pavement shimmers. The last sun rays peak over the tree tops, slowly fading into an ink black night sky. The orange in between is stunning. He moves his gaze across the road, where tall trees are lurking, their skin split and dark. A sturdy eye opens.  


He takes a step closer, adjusting his eyes to the darkness of the forest. He can make out the silhouettes of trees and men alike.

Wait.

He takes another step closer, heart rate picking up. Between the pine needles, feet are dancing. Silhouettes, mirror images. One step closer, and one opes its mouth, revealing nothing but void. A high pitched noise strikes his ears, and Jacobi flinches. Another eye opens, and breathing becomes clear. It feels like a swarm of bees is buzzing in his ears. Still, he cannot turn away.

No mouth moves when it is spoken.  


_“We know where you came from,”_ twists the darkness. _“Daniel Kenneth Jacobi.”_  


A tree reveals another eye. THere’s headlights to the left, something he only barely registers. He cannot turn away. He does not feel afraid.  


_“Do you know who we keep here?”_ The sound duplicates, merging with the swarm.  


_ “Do you know who you should save?” _

Daniel Kenneth Jacobi is not afraid.

The eyes blink.

He is _terrified_.

He takes another step closer, a cold hollow stretching towards him, when a hand pulls him back. The sound of a car horn wakes him from the living nightmare, and only then Jacobi becomes aware of his rapid heartbeat. He stumbles back. When he looks back, the eyes have closed.

There’s nothing to see.

“Daniel?” The hand rests on his shoulders, lightly. There’s a pause. Then: “Jacobi?”

Jacobi turns around as he tries to process it all. Slowly, the buzzing fades into the rustling of the trees. His ears ring. As the world comes into focus again, he notices black curls tied back. A long scarf. A worried face,  


“What were you doing?” Doug asks, Brow furrowed. Jacobi blinks, then frowns.  


“What were _you_ doing?” A mere deflection. Something to distract. He can’t- doesn’t want to answer Eiffel right now. Doug moves his hands away, puts them in the pockets of his jacket. He eyes Jacobi, who’s casting glances at the trees every so often. Nothing happens.

“It’s kinda a long story,” Doug eventually answers, assessing the situation with care. He gives Jacobi one more look over. “Let’s go get some food.”

* * *

The idea of going to the diner with Doug is only slightly uncomfortable. It has nothing to do with the last time Jacobi was there, no, - at least, that’s what Jacobi likes to tell himself. He knows there will be no almosts or perhaps today. No jolts, no proximity. No handholding.

Honestly, that’d be awkward.

It wasn’t with Warren.

Daniel shakes his thoughts, focussing on the matter at hand. Food. He follows Doug back into town, past the 7/11 and the book store, onto narrow pavements which are dimly lit. 

“You want to grab some pizza?” Doug asks. Jacobi shrugs. They walk into the pizza parlor, a small establishment where the wallpaper is peeling of the walls, a sad brown with withered flowers. The tiles on the floor are cracked, their mellow creme colour hiding nothing.  


“Let’s get the pizza to go,” Doug proposes, and Jacobi nods.   


“Yeah, it’s probably for the best,” he agrees, looking around the parlor once more.

They walk in silence, neither knowing how to begin or continue the conversation. A slow drizzle covers them while they make their way to Doug’s house. Jacobi can tell something is brewing, something Doug’s holding back.   
From time to time, his mind drift back to the eyes. They’re everywhere; in the windows, lights, the gutter.

They’re not here.

Doug pushes the front door open, pizza boxes in hand shoulders against the door.  


“Make yourself at home,” he says, shutting the door behind them. He drops his jacket over a chair, then walks into another room. “Tu casa es su casa, yadiyada.”   


A white cat presents itself, loudly meowing, zooming past the door. It immediately takes the opportunity to jump into Jacobi’s lap once he sits down, purring loudly and curling up on top of his legs. Awkwardly, Jacobi tries to decide what to do with the animal. He decides to let them be, and pulls the pizza boxes closer.  


“Ah, so you met Roomba,” Doug says, entering the room, laptop in hand. “Hey little kitty,” he coos towards the purring cat.  


“Roomba?” Jacobi asks. “Nice name you got there, little nightmare.”  


Doug laughs. There’s a brief moment of silence before Doug starts to talk again.  


“So, maybe the story isn’t as long as I thought,” he says, voice rising. “Really, all there is to it is that I got a contract here, including housing. So, uh, we moved here-,”  


“-we?”  


“Yeah,” Doug stammers, “Renée, Isabel, and me. And, uh, Hera,” he tugs at the cord around his neck, “which is actually what I was working on.”  


“You got Hera?” Jacobi tries not to sound incredulous, but fails miserably. He thought Hera was _gone_. That she’d be stuck in the mainframe of a crashed shuttle forever. Queen of scrapmetal and moving parts. Unless- 

It must’ve been Alana. Of course. She probably even left notes.

Jacobi feels his heart beat. Then, he notices he feels the slightest sense of relief. He’s- _glad_.  


“Yeah,” Doug confirms, and he smiles. He lets go of the drive in favor of shoving a piece of pepperoni pizza in his mouth. “I’m- working on it.”  


“Wait, where did you get a job?” Jacobi backtracks.  


“The radio station,” Doug answers, mouth full of pizza, “officially the midnight slot. I’m supposed to start in May, so I’m now mostly doing some odd jobs around the station.”  


There’s a second before it dawns on Jacobi. A host for the midnight slot- the Sammy and Ben show, up for grabs and already taken.  Someone’s leaving.

_Someone’s leaving_.  


He types up a quick message, hands shaking ever so slightly. It feels _wrong_. 

But how is he to explain to Doug that the new friends he made on the run sometimes worry him? That the job he got is a clear sign that something is amiss. How is he supposed to tell him that, while he left, he can’t have it happen again? How is he to tell him that, while he ran away himself. When he left them with nothing but a note and a thunder in his heart. _God_ , he’d been such a dick.

He can’t let others make the same mistakes he did. Especially not-

“Daniel, are you alright?” Doug asks, voice soft, and it strikes Jacobi like lightning.   


“Don’t-,” Jacobi says, voice trembling, breathing barely steady, “-don’t call me that, Eiffel.”  


How is he to explain that name has become too tender?  


“Okay,” Doug nods, and Jacobi immediately feels a sense of guilt clawing up his gut. They finish their pizza in silence. Roomba eventually runs off to another room, consumed by boredom. The laptop remains closed.  


A silent heartbeat.  


“Jacobi,” Doug asks again, “why are you here?”  


There’s a short silence. Jacobi tries to think about what Doug would want to hear, then throws it out the window. He doesn’t get to cheat on this one, doesn’t get to lie. He owes them that much. There’s no right answer to this question, only truth. So he tells the truth.  


“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost ashamed. He is. He swallows, then shrugs and looks down. He shrinks, leaving his voice small. “I don’t know.”  


“Then why did you leave?” Doug asks with more fire than Jacobi expected. “ _Why_ did you just leave like that? After everything that happened-,”  


Doug bites his tongue. Jacobi can see it in his profile as he looks up. They inhale simultaneously, unspoken emotions hanging between them like a raincloud. Doug turns his head and looks at him. 

Jacobi admires his gut. 

“I couldn’t stay,” Jacobi says. He remembers the suffocating silence of his bedroom, the nights spend awake, trying to brush over the horrible things he’d done. The trying to piece together why but always missing a piece. He remembers the tiredness, the exhaustion, the numb yet vivid thoughts. He remembers the dread and the guilt and the sorrow. He still feels it sometimes. “Especially after what happened.”  


He can feel Doug’s eyes on him, a pity and a recognition all the same, can feel the urge to spill and explain and reach out and tell what happened. It’s the least he could do. Probably. He gathers himself, let’s out a small sigh. He has to be _honest_.   


“Look, I wasn’t in a good place. There’s- I felt trapped. In my- in my head, mostly. And well- Daniel Jacobi’s mind wasn’t a great place to be,” he smiles wryly, sarcasm thick on the last part of the sentence. But a truth- a truth all the same.  


“Then why didn’t you talk?” The question is open, earnest. It stings- there’s a care and concern Daniel didn’t expect. One he didn’t think he’d deserve. So it stings- pulls behind his bellybutton and travels through his torso, until his heart is trapped and it gets stuck in his throat. He needs to be _honest_.

So he is.  


“I don’t think I knew how to.”


	22. Asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it has been a while! I've been very busy over the holidays, and with various deadlines and my thesis before that. Just wanted to give you a heads-up that updates will now probably be monthly, due to my thesis.  
> In any case, it has been nice getting back to writing. It may be unsteady at times as I had like notes on what I wanted to happen in this chapter, but I hope you still enjoy!

** 11:03, the 12th of January, 2018 **

There’s nothing to do. No, scratch that. There’s _always_ something to do. It’s just not meaningful. And damn if Warren Kepler hates doing things that aren’t _meaningful._

There’s a purpose to everything. That’s just the way it is. 

Warren doesn’t have a purpose.

He’s helping miss Wright with her investigations. He spends days in the library, and visits her in the basement of the motel when she’s still up and he doesn’t dare to sleep. When it’s too early to close his eyes, darkness looming over him in this too familiar room of strangers. He pieces together this narrative of a town, book upon book about the bloody history of the grounds upon which it was founded. Red string of strange and supernatural. He listens to Lily mutter, but never interrupts. There’s an order to things, and contrary to popular belief, Kepler doesn’t particularly likes to disturb that. There’d been a ‘can I help you?’ in an awfully polite voice, the way Kepler always used to. The way he was conditioned to do. Old habits die hard, he supposes. It had been answered with a ‘why’ and he’d retaliated with a ‘because’. A quick scan wit ha raised eyebrow, a quick judge of character. A:

‘You’re an asshole’ 

met with:

‘I know.’ 

A nod of approval.

‘Good.’

* * *

When he can’t sleep, Kepler watches Mission Apparition, a show about the supernatural which requires negative braincells. He’s found himself emerged in it, somehow. The first season is finished at sunrise. He gets up, gets a tub of ice cream, and gets back into bed.

It’s halfway through the second season that he realizes that it’s not a way to live. It’s comfortable, for now, in a way which can only keep him contempt for so long. He’s not _happy_ , per se. 

He might not have been in a long time. 

It’s hard to keep track, in all honesty. There’s a part trying to process losing a year of his life to the void. There’s another part rejecting that. He’s always known that time was a construct. Being out in space makes you feel that particularly well, lightyears away from where you have been. And now he’s back, and what does he have? Trauma, maybe, but certainly not as much as others, and definitely not as bad. It can’t be. He knows what he’s done, so he figures he deserves it. Looking back- well, there’s a clear answer. 

He’s got money. He’s got a cellphone, some properties somewhere, his memories, a creditcard, a decent set of clothes. Somewhere he could be.

He looks at the paper. By now, he’s got the numbers memorized. The ink is somewhat smudged where he’d traced the line of the tiniest scratch. A dent. If he was hopeful, a plea.

Kepler closes his laptop, throws away the empty tub, and packs his bags. 

After a quick shower, he heads over to the café, bringing only a notebook and a library book with him. He needs to think this through.

He already has.

There’s a pull in his heart, one that’s all feeling and no rationele. One there’s no room for, one he’s learned to ignore. Wanting something is not the same as needing it. Getting to have it is supposed to be a reward.

_He doesn’t deserve it_. 

He has decided. He already had decided that. No redemption for men like him. 

At times, he wishes he could explain it. That there still is a time and place, as if there ever were. He wants Daniel to know why he did what he did, that it wasn’t all because of some twisted power play. That his intentions were good.

No. That’s not the word. There was no good in Goddard. No good he’d done. A few good people, perhaps, funneling the money where the world needed it. But no _good,_ no greater good- not one that mattered, in any case. Great ideas and visions, driven by the reckless force of near immortals. A whole system built upon the selfish dream of a stumped-down kid.

The more Kepler thought about it, the more he despised it.

It wasn’t the work, per se. He’d known what he’d started, and what he’d finish. There always had been a greater plan, an ideal, something to cling to and put his trust in. He’d been so immersed in climbing up that he’d never thought about the way down. And Goddard had made sure it was damn lonely up top.

There had been a time he’d wanted different things. It’s hard to remember now, because the ages tore away every inch of his soul and body not related to Goddard. They played it smart, and they played it dirty. He hadn’t noticed at the time, of course. The isolation had been gradual. Less going out with friends, less visits to art galleries for entertainment. Less talking to his neighbours, less calling his sick grandmother. No visits to his mother, father, then uncle, niece, and friends. He never got the card about his grandmother’s passing. He had been stripped bare, only to be put on a string. When he noticed, of course, it was too late: the process was already in motion, and he was in way too deep. So he yanked the cords, rattled his chains. Learned to pick locks and weaponized himself. Patience. A plan.

It’s like he’d said to Eiffel up in space: _he was only the artist formerly known as Warren Kepler._

The doorbell chimes and wakes Kepler from his thoughts. He immediately sits up, alarmed. He cannot remember ordering coffee, but it’s well cold by now. He downs it in one go. He throws a quick look to the door, but the doorway’s empty by now. He looks at the book in front of him, and the notes surrounding it. One question is underlined: 

_how do you mourn something you haven’t lost?_

He hears footsteps before he sees the hand. With a loud smack it connects to his face, leaving a hot streak across his cheek. He hears a chuckle.

“Ow,” he mumbles. Then: “What the fuck?”  


“Bastard,” he hears a familiar voice mutter. When he looks up, he meets the eye of a very experienced commander.

“Commander Minkowski,” he says, calmly. She snarls.  


“Kepler,” she spits out. Behind her, Lovelace gives a small wave, smug smile spread across her face.  


“Pleasure,” he says. “Hope you’ve been well.”  


Minkowski squints.  


“Why are you here?”

Kepler shrugs.

“You tell me.”  


He can feel their eyes moving over him, over the only slightly swollen bruise and the scar above his eyebrow. Alongside the curve of his nose and into his eyes. He maintains eye contact. There’s nothing to hide.

“Alright,” Minkowski eventually says, stepping back, relaxing her stance. Lovelace rubs a hand on her back. She doesn’t seem threatened by his presence at all.

_ Good. _

Minkowski breathes in again, clearly evaluating the situation. She seems to decide it’s not worth it. She backs down. Before both she and Lovelace turn around to get their order, she looks straight at him and utters:  


“Don’t cause any trouble.” 

Kepler chuckles.

* * *

He contemplates calling. He contemplates leaving altogether, and then he contemplates calling once more.

There’s a heaviness in his fingers when he grips the handle of the suitcase. It’s funny how he’d been used to living from suitcase to suitcase, with only a few items on him. On the job, it had been normal, and still he can’t shake the feeling he’s about to do something _big_. 

His palms are sweaty.

He leaves the keys at the front desk, together with a note for Lily, even though he knows he’ll be running into her soon. It’s a bit of human decency he doesn’t want to let go of. He’s never been a good person, he thinks. But he can try.

He takes the bus, gets out somewhere in the vicinity of where he needs to be.  Where he wants to be.  Passes streetlights and shop windows, painted doors and some park. Walks into a more secluded area, where the houses are narrow and the gardens are messy. He spots a rusty red mustang in front of a bigger building. He walks up to the porch, rings the bell. No answer. Rings the bell once more, waits. No answer. Waits, then rings the doorbell.

Nothing.

He sits down on the porch, suitcase next to him. Beneath him, the gravel is course, but he isn’t bothered. From the heavy sky, drops start falling. First, a splat, then a drop. Then another and another, until it’s raining, and Kepler has nowhere to go. It’s refreshing, really.

Kepler thinks about Minkowski, and only then realizes the miracle of it all. The sheer wonder he should’ve felt when encountering them. But he didn’t. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to be surprised by things like that.

He gets it. He likes to think he _really_ gets it. Put in her shoes, he wouldn’t be happy to see him, too.

He rubs his thumb over the paper. Despite the cold rain dampening his skin, his palms are still sweaty. He tries to tell himself to be patient, but the feeling gnawing at his heart goes stronger. His heart swells. It doesn’t have to, but it still does.

Something _big_.

Jacobi is humming a song as he walks over, hands in his pockets, searching for keys. He’s not really minding his step, but sees a figure rising up, and grinds to a halt. He does a double take. When Warren Kepler speaks, there’s a quiet to his voice.  


“Does the offer still stand?”  


Daniel Jacobi bats an eye, then nods.  


“Yeah,” he says, trying to process the image of his former boss on the porch. Waiting in front of his apartment. For him. “Yes, it does.”

Kepler follows Jacobi into the apartment, blood rushing through his veins. There’s a silent buzz in his ears, a persistent beat of his heart. This is the part where he’d usually take in the apartment, but he only sees Jacobi. Jacobi putting away his coat, kicking off his shoes. Jacobi putting away his keys, sorting through some unopened mail. Jacobi putting on water, hands calloused and scarred and strong in a way that Kepler’s lanky hands could never mirror. He sits down. Kepler remains standing.

“You can put your clothes in the bottom drawers of the wardrobe, if you’d like,” Jacobi says, suddenly standing beside him. Kepler nods. 

He finds the bathroom soon enough. He quickly washes his face, looks into the mirror. 

_What has he done?_

He shakes it, quickly. There’s no room for doubt. The man looking back looks tired and a bit broken. There’s a look Kepler cannot read. He doesn’t want to.

When he returns, Jacobi is already moving his duvet over to the couch.  


“I’m taking the couch,” Jacobi announces. Kepler shakes his head.  


“You’re not.”  


Jacobi turns to look at him.  


“With all due respect, _sir_ , I am not letting you sleep on the couch.”  


“Yet I didn’t exactly bring an air mattress either, mister Jacobi,” Kepler retaliates, walking towards the couch. It feels _familiar_.  


“Sounds like a you problem, then,” Jacobi raises his eyebrows. “Sir.” Kepler catches his wrist before he can put down the covers. He quickly loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go yet.  


“Daniel,” he says, trying to look sternly at the other man. “It’s your house. I’m taking the couch.”  
Something in Jacobi’s face shifts. First, Kepler assumes he’s lost his touch. Then, a jolt when he feels Daniel’s fingers brush against his, not quite holding them, but not letting go either. They brush past each other. Warren lets his grip slip.  


“No,” Jacobi says, softly, “you’re not.”

He starts moving the duvet back into his bedroom, revealing an old floral couch which has seen better days. Warren stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, before he follows Jacobi into the bedroom.  


“Just like old times, huh,” he concludes, breath high in his chest. He watches as Jacobi pulls out another pillow, throws it onto the double bed that’s pushed against the wall. While he continues to make the bed, Jacobi lets out a single “Yep.”

So that’s it.

* * *

At night, Warren Kepler lies awake. It’s been a while since his bed wasn’t empty, since there’d been another person anywhere close. They’ve done this before, of course. Sometimes, it was inevitable. That’s just the way it was.

Now, though- 

Daniel turns over on his side, but Warren can hear he’s not asleep yet. He waits, stares into the dark. Lies on his back, then turns over. He can’t remember having to think so much about it. It seems strange, now, how it all came naturally. 

Warren fears that space has broken something between them. Fears something has snapped, and that it can never be put back together again. That it’s simply irreparable. 

He'll have to live with that.

He tosses, then turns, and turns again. He thinks. Opens his mouth to speak, then swallows his words. There’s not much Warren Kepler needs, but he needs to know. Desperately wants to know.

Maybe this time, he’ll allow himself to _want_.

“Daniel,” he says, voice soft, because he doesn’t know how to. How to begin this. How to call it by its name. He stares into the darkness as he feels his heart pump. They are existing in a twilight zone. 

There are few things Warren Kepler wants.

There are many things Warren Kepler wants for Daniel Jacobi.

He breathes in, suppresses the urge to stretch out his fingers, to gently interlace them with the ones next to him. He won’t allow himself to. 

But he does allow himself this truth, this honesty, which is merely a breath when it leaves his lips in the honey-eyed night. 

“I need you to be happy without me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully this chapter didn't disappoint!
> 
> Also, the quote I was referring to (which gets me going each time) is from A Matter of Perspective, which is a brilliant piece of wolf 359 writing, and a piece that really hit me in retrospect on a re-listen:
> 
> "Of course I do. What, you think when I was young I dreamt about this? About being stuck up here? Of course not. I had things I wanted to do, places I wanted to see, people I wanted to be with, and that's all... that's all gone. Because this job has asked everything of me. It has demanded that I give it every inch of my life. You think you know me? That you've met me? No. You've met the Artist Formerly Known as Warren Kepler. You've met my job. Aside from that, there's no one left for you to know. I'm gone. I've been goddamned canceled - show's over, there will be no encores. All that's left is... this. Sitting here, waiting for a phone call."


	23. Familiar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been a while! Uni will do that for you. Please note that there is a small time jump at the start (we've moved about two weeks ahead). Have fun reading!

** 19:01, the 23rd of January, 2018 **

The light is a warm yellow spilling over the table, casting shadows in the corners of the room. There is a rain tapping at the windows, a mindless and soft rumble; the rolling of clouds, the rush of wind on a quiet night. Jacobi looks at the painting hanging on the wall, a silhouette of the Forum Romanum painted against a bright sky. He remembers being there, way back. The cheap sunglasses, the flipflops, the one time he saw Kepler wear a short-sleeved button up- apart from that one time they went on mission to Hawaii. The way the Italian language seemed to effortlessly roll of his tongue whilst they dined out, before Alana had joined the team. The way Warrens hair had become lighter and the way he himself had been burned under the hot summer sun. Early mornings but late afternoons, statues and statues and ruins and temples, and most of all churches, as sinfully loud as the Catholics loved them. And in their middle, catching the radiance of the splendour and gold: _he_. 

It has been a while.

On the other side of the table, Sammy is poking his pasta, its contents dubiously coloured. He refuses to send it back, however. It should be fine. He should be able to stomach it.

“Thanks for coming out,” Sammy says, after putting down his fork. He frowns at his plate, then waves over the waiter to send his food back. Jacobi focusses on him, tearing his gaze away from the framed picture of Rome, moving it back to where Sammy is sitting.  


“No problem.” Sammy looks at the plate of food in front of Jacobi, then back at him. He raises his eyebrows. Jacobi pushes the plate towards him.  


“Did we ever-,” Jacobi lets his eyes dart over the place, even though he can feel Sammy’s eyes on him. He scrapes his throat. “Did we ever talk about the lights?”  


Sammy coughs, takes a sip of water, coughs again.  


“I don’t- no.”  


“Hm,” Jacobi observes, once again staring past Sammy. He’d forgotten about it, initially, thoughts a weary oker as he tried to shove the pieces together, stitch himself back up, trying to make sense of it all. There had been no further incidents- no lockdowns, no disappearances. Only one very, _very_ distinct appearance. One he is still trying to figure out, after two weeks of skin and touch and muttered confession, only found in the blithering midnight hour with only one set of ears cognizant. There was a balance he had not found yet. He wouldn’t change it, though.

Lovelace had remembered. She had realized, delving through recent broadcasts and town history. She’d known, recognized his voice, and dug deeper and deeper. Called him up. Asked about the incident. 

But what did _he_ know?  


Jacobi shifts in his seat, thoughts forming anything but a coherent follow-up. He wonders if there is anything to discuss, whether he should just- no. He doesn’t know what to ask. Besides, she should be here any-

The bell rings as the door swings open, revealing a black woman with an army green trench coat, her curls done up in a quick ponytail. She unbuttons her coat as she walks in, striding confidently towards the two of them.  


“Fancy meeting you here,” Lovelace smiles at Jacobi, all lip and no teeth. The gleam in her eyes betrays her, however.She goes to hug him. “I missed you, you ass.”  


“Getting all sentimental, huh?” Jacobi grins, kicking the free chair back so Lovelace can take a seat. Before she sits down, she holds out her hand to Sammy, ignoring Jacobi’s remark.  


“Isabel Lovelace,” she introduces herself.  


“Sammy Stevens,” Sammy shakes her hand.

“The paranormal expert,” Isabel muses, observing Sammy while he continues eating the lasagna. Sammy coughs.  


“Really, you should meet Ben for that.”  


“Oh, he’ll be here shortly,” Isabel smiles, an amused expression crossing her face as she takes in the confused look on Sammy’s face. “Got his number from a _lovely_ librarian.”

“Isabel,” Jacobi says, mock-scandalized, “you’re a taken woman!”  


“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty when I see it,” Lovelace grins. Sammy sighs.  


“I think you and Lily will get along just fine,” he mutters to himself, before finishing the pasta dish.  


“What was that?” Lovelace asks, resting her chin on her hand, batting her eyelashes at Sammy. Sammy, in turn, looks somewhat mortified. Jacobi chuckles. 

“Nothing,” Sammy answers, voice pitched higher than per usual.  


“Hmhm,” Lovelace smiles, bemused, leaning back in her chair.  


“Hmhm,” Sammy raises his eyebrows, relaxing somewhat.  


“Good.”

It is only a few minutes before Ben shows up, face red, a stray curl poking in his eye. He apologizes for being late. He hasn’t changed much since the last time Jacobi saw him, dark and handsome and short, with an amicable smile and inexhaustible verve. He jitters. Them again, Ben always jitters. He moves around the table, taking his seat next to Sammy, bumping shoulders lightly. It is only then that Jacobi notices the dark circles under Sammy’s eyes, the tired look on his face. He feels guilty for not paying attention. They’d talked about it, yes, about the show of the fifteenth, the call Lily made, the implementations- the anger. Jacobi understood the anger. It was a special, simple, isolating anger that came with losing someone you held dear. It was a fight lost but a fight fought, anything to get it to feel right, to make it _feel_ right without having to give it a place. Without admitting. An anger only felt inside and mostly at yourself, because the anger is just an easier way to admit you have failed. You didn’t come through, so now it’s all that’s left.

Anger lies. 

Lovelace starts talking, straight to the point. This is what they came here to do. Jacobi watches her work, lay out the research she’s done: she knows what she’s talking about. There’s a wit unmatched, something Jacobi admires- something he’s learned to admire. Ben produces a notebook, and then another, takes notes and shares his findings. It’s almost scary how well the two work together. Jacobi follows in silence, mind reeling, sifting through memories of debacles and ruin and rising, dissecting the inner workings of a monstrous mechanism. What’s the slaying of another dragon?

It’s not the first time Jacobi hears about it. Lovelace has the uncanny ability to unravel any secret, to pry information from rotten corners, to stitch narratives together and make it whole. They have been trained for it, weaponizing knowledge. It hadn’t been a surprise when she’d called him. Jacobi likes to think he doesn’t understand why she’d do it all over again, tear down an organization, rattle the giant’s bones. But he does. In her case, righteousness. Resentment. Preventing another disaster from happening. She has her reasons to. Maybe his reasons aren’t as selfless, but here he is. A fight he’s willing to fight.

Lovelace says: “I think the Science Institute is causing the rainbow lights,” and Ben loses it. He flips frantically through the notebooks, muttering to himself. Sammy is quiet, contemplating the words of Isabel, then asks:  


“So- the abductions? You think they are caused by the Institute?”  


“Yes.” Lovelace looks almost stern. “The abductions- not the disappearances.”  


“Shit,” Ben starts writing. Jacobi follows the ballpoint pen as it moves across the page, connecting the lights and the institute with something he has called the ‘electrolocaust’. Electricity. Transmorgrifiers. Something- _familiar_.

Jacobi looks at Lovelace, quizzically. 

“How?” he asks, but as she turns to look at him, it dawns on him. He breathes. “Electromagnetic currents.”  


“What?” Sammy asks, at the same time that Ben curses and shouts: “Of course!”. He makes another note. 

“That actually makes complete sense. Electromagnetic currents repel snakes! They do the weird _swoosh_ and- oh God, I need to remember this! We talked about this in physics.”

“The lights can be caused in reaction to a high intensity electromagnetic force. It causes something that resemble an aurora borealis- shifting colours in the sky. And that electromagnetic force-,”  


“-might just be housed in the Science Institute,” Sammy finishes. Isabel nods. 

“So if we want to stop the abductions-,” Ben says, still rummaging around.  


“We stop the Science Institute,” Jacobi concludes. The room goes quiet, just for a second. Sammy scrapes his throat.  


“You might need more people for that.”  


So they make a plan. It’s not gonna be easy, but it’s never been about that. Nothing in life is ever _easy_ , it’s just made easier. They won’t complicate it- Lovelace won’t allow it. She needs her eye on it, needs it to be clearcut and well timed and minutely detailed. It’s a level of perfection he’s only ever seen once before, before they went up in flames and rose from the ashes scattered over a scorched earth, borne in a man who’d be caught dead before he’d not calculate an opportunity, a circumstance, a possibility. In him, it was sharp, straight, and clean like the cut of a freshly sharpened knife, but in Lovelace it was all wadded and sturdy and safe. It was not an onset, but a defense. 

They agree to work together with Emily to gain more intel, to gather information- anything found in the library, anything found in the archives. Minkowski will be brought in for more tactical thinking- layouts, distribution. She will want this on her terms, but those terms will be fair. They are unsure whether to involve Doug, both sides hesitant to commit. Jacobi wonders if he will be the wildcard they need- he is able to bring something to the table the others won’t. But the reward needs to be worth the risk. The hesitation is not due to incompetence- it’s fear. Are they willing to let Eiffel go? 

In the end, Sammy begrudgingly agrees to talk to Lily. He doesn’t _like_ it, but deems it a necessary evil. In the end, they will need the research she has done, her sharp mind, and sharper tongue. There’s a lot to be said about Lily Wright, but she’s not a quitter, nor is she a coward, even though she sometimes wishes she was. Sammy _knows_ Lily, and knows she will pull through. There hasn’t been hesitation on his part. Only reluctance.

* * *

His head is still reeling as he walks home. It is a strange feeling, knowing he now has a purpose. Another mission to complete. The sudden structure isn’t as much of comfort as it was before, cold thoughts snaking through the crevices in his brain. He tries to remind himself it will not be the same, that this is a different time, a different place. That this is another hydra, another sword, another rush of blood through the veins. Another set of lungs collapsing. Another team. Another commander.

He doesn’t let himself bet on another colonel. 

Jacobi lets his thoughts wander back to the conversation with Sammy, before it was all decided. Before they recognized an additional problem. He’d barely uttered his name, then, but it was uttered nonetheless. _Jack_. There was something Jacobi had never had- that connection, that ache, that kind of love. He’d never been good at love. Sammy thought so too, but Jacobi could see he was wrong: there was love dripping between the words, interlinked within the pauses, the full stops, the quiver and tremble in his hand when they talked about _him_. He might have had a rough start, but this man, this glorious, sad, and scared man, was capable of so much love. Jacobi wishes he had that, too. He decides it’s enough to be able to be surrounded by people who know how to, their warmth seeping into his bones until his skin glows. 

Maybe, he can love too. It just won’t be as elegant.

It wasn’t an easy conversation. There was something raw about the grief Sammy’d confessed- _something_ left unsaid. But Jacobi didn’t pry. He recognised the importance of a listening ear- thank you, Bob- and let it wash over him. This shared experience- it could help him, maybe. He hoped it’d helped him. Still, he didn’t talk about the adjustments, the changes. Having the person back you thought you lost. The lingering feeling of injustice as _she_ was still left behind. The quiet rage and the loud silences. 

He didn’t think they were there yet.

He hears rustling in the kitchen when he opens the front door, keys turned. He finds Kepler standing there, drying the dishes. At the sound of the lock, he turns to look at Jacobi.  


“I saved you some,” he smiles, gesturing towards the table with the tea towel. “Homemade pasta with a melange of mushrooms.”  


“You’ve been cooking again?” Jacobi asks, throwing his hoodie on the couch.  


“Figured I had the time,” Warren says, almost sadly. Jacobi hums, only then noticing the array of herbs that had appeared in the kitchen. He pokes the pasta, seeing if it’s still hot. Kepler frowns at him for that, leaning back against the kitchen counter, but doesn’t actually seem annoyed.

“I’ll heat it up for you,” he says, taking the dish and moving through the kitchen. Daniel watches as Kepler starts to hum, moving pans around, not wanting to ruin the structure of the dish by putting it in the microwave. He recognises the tune as _La Vie en Rose_ , if only because Kepler’d played it in the cabin in the Ardennes in 2011, when he had ushered Maxwell to join him for a dance, which she’d adamantly refused. He’d held his hand out for Jacobi to join him, which he’d taken, much to Alana’s bemusement. He’d been a fool, really. Still, he is smiling at the memory.

He sits back as he listens to the clear notes, represses the urge to get up, take Warren’s hands, and dance. He doesn’t dance. No reason to start now. But there’s an itch under his skin, a jitter in his leg. A hitch in his breath. A sense of calm nonetheless.

Warren falls quiet as he turns around, studying the look on Daniel’s face.  


“Is there something wrong?”

Jacobi glitches for a second, brain stuck on formulating an answer while he looks at his former bosses’ lips, nose, eyes, face, while he is painfully aware of this heart beating in his chest, while he wants to get up and touch and touch and kiss- connect. He curses the tenderness in domesticity. 

“No,” he says, diverting his eyes. Then, softly, “It’s fine, Warren.”

Kepler looks like he wants to say something, but shuts his mouth and places the plate in front of Daniel. He throws him one last look, before he turns to finish the dishes. He starts whistling, the same tune, then softly sings. Daniel tries not to stare, focusses on the dish instead, and- _goddamnit_. 

There is a moment he realizes what he’s done. The use of his first name, the soft tone of voice. It’s not something he has done before- a careful boundary that was sometimes threaded, but never broken. It was an unspoken rule between them. It was different when it was the other way around, different when he used _his_ first name. Pleading, precarious. Intimate. A foreign warmth.

Warren shoots him a questioning look as he takes another bite of the pasta.

“’s good,” Daniel says, mouth full of food, immediately regretting the impulse. He puts his hand in front of his mouth to cover up, half expecting Kepler to launch into a story about how he learned to cook. He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> First of all, I want to thank Justice and all the lovely people on the King Falls discord server for drawing my attention to and discussing the EMF/EMP theory! <3
> 
> Secondly, might there be any errors, albeit grammar or spelling, please let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any thoughts or comments, don't be afraid to tell!


End file.
